


Shapes That Renew

by SylviaW1991



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Au roulette basically, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Canon Divergence, Consent is Sexy, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Was Not Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), First Time, Footnotes, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Kinda one demon one human au, Kinda reincarnation au, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Raising the Antichrist AU, Several First Kisses, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Tags will be added, Talking During Sex, Temporarily Teenagers, They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), Too Many Footnotes, Warlock's name is Damian, characters will be added, kinda human au, letter writing, shifting pov, they're switches bitches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:07:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 137,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24656575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylviaW1991/pseuds/SylviaW1991
Summary: The Angel of the Eastern Gate has done quite a bit wrong very quickly on Earth. He’s given his flaming sword away, he let those pesky humans escape Eden, and now he’s gone and allowed Cain to murder Abel. God may be just fine turning the other cheek, but the Archangels find their earthly representative... lacking. But how to punish an angel when God expects him to be on Earth?Well, let him think he’s one of those humans he’s so fond of. Let him think it again and again and again.Too bad they didn’t consider the Serpent of Eden’s six thousand year well of patience or the principality’s stubbornness. Not all lives are lonely, and Armageddon still needs thwarting.---Alt: Aziraphale spends 6K years not knowing he’s an angel, but still manages to make a demon fall in love with him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 505
Kudos: 285





	1. In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Garden of Eden was a lovely place. Until, that is, it wasn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to [SkimmingTheSurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface) for being an incredible beta and cheerleader for this fic 🥰
> 
> [Our chapter song](https://open.spotify.com/track/41TqRBgF4Ahyr4vGmZVk8b?si=Pf06qWZ4TZCazo6EhA4oWg)

_You and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount.  
_ _At the heart of time, love of one for another.  
_ _We have played along side millions of lovers,  
_ _Shared in the same shy sweetness of meeting,  
_ _the distressful tears of farewell,  
_ _Old love but in shapes that renew and renew forever._

― Rabindranath Tagore

* * *

In the beginning, there was a garden. There was more, of course, but everything that could ever be wanted was in the garden and it was good. Frankly, that was its problem. It was all _just_ good. Simple, dull, neverending _good_. That had been the problem in Heaven, really. At least the creating had been exciting, putting stars in the sky, helping others build and shape nebulae so beautiful and bright it brought tears to the eye. He’d had his mischief, though, even then. God had smiled at him when he’d gone beyond the plans and had used the stars to draw little pictures in the sky. At least it had felt like a smile, all warm and vibrant and all-encompassing in a pure Love.

“Angel among stars, why have you done this? It is not what I asked.”

And he’d been proud and maybe a little defiant in the way he’d lifted his chin. “I wanted your human beings to find the pictures. I thought they could make up stories about them. Use their imaginations and all.”

And then She’d smiled and been gone again, leaving this unique angel to his own devices to draw those pictures in the sky. The gourds, the lions, the scorpions, the things She had created already and a few things She had yet to. Or, rather, a few things the humans had yet to learn. But they would know one day, She had said. They would one day learn and know and grow.

How, the Fallen Angel wondered, would they ever do any of that in such a bland place as this? And so poorly guarded and even more poorly managed. There was one angel, a principality. He was the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, which implied there were others - a North, South, and West gate. This implication was entirely false. Calling it a _gate_ was false too, had anyone asked him. And the angel sort of had.

Shy, cautious, he’d left his post more than once as the long days passed. He’d pet the animals, his flaming sword doused and in its sheath. He’d touched the delicate flower petals and dipped his toes in the cool waters. He’d giggled, quiet and ever casting his gaze skywards as if experiencing such things would be frowned upon.

And they would be, of course, had anyone seen. The snake would know.

He slithered after him often, winding about his ankles to make him stumble and getting a finger wagged at him. “Now you stop that, you wily serpent. I’ve had more than enough of this. Why, I- I have half a mind to smite you.”

He should’ve had a full one. Any other angel would have. He remembered that first war, that bitter battle that had opened the Earth She had created so lovingly. Those on the “wrong side” had been cast down, cast out, Her Love burned out of them to blacken their wings and melt their halos and break their bodies. For many, it had broken their souls. Damaged and darkened, so many had turned to Lucifer as he crowned himself Satan. Their leader had decided that if Heaven wanted to be Perfectly Good, then they, in this new place called Hell, would be Perfectly Evil.

Why no one had realized being exactly the opposite of one extreme was no less oppressive than what they'd left behind was beyond the snake. The Serpent of Eden, the angel had whispered once. He’d been eating grapes, not quite looking down at the slinky stretch of black and red scales. The snake’s forked tongue had flicked out, and the angel had set a grape down before him. “Here, demon. They’re quite scrummy, but I need to get back.”

A flutter of vibrant white wings and gone he’d been. So the demon simply shapeshifted into a form that pleased him, the limbs gangly. His body was one of the few that remained relatively unbroken, but his Fall had been a bit more of a... a saunter, he decided. He hadn’t careened down into the pool of boiling sulfur and having been among the last[1] had meant landing atop quite the pile of bodies. Only his eyes had really taken damage, a look upwards a very Big Mistake as his halo had melted right into his eyes. He didn’t mind them so much, the more he got used to their reflection in Eden's pools. The orbs were entirely golden unless he wanted the gold to be relegated to the regular iris. It was the pupil which caused him the most problems, the black piece insistent on remaining in a long, slitted line.

If that, blackened wings, and the ability to shapeshift into a snake at will were the worst parts of being a demon, why even be an angel at all?[2]

Eventually, Adam and Eve came into being and that was exciting. For a minute. The demon was disappointed in them when they seemed to want to do nothing more than explore the garden and sleep[3] and eat. Where was the imagination? Where were the choices? God told them to avoid eating the apples from the Tree of Knowledge and had then left them to their own devices.

What the fuck? he wondered, accidentally inventing swearing,[4] and waited on the tree for one of the humans to come along and take a bite. Weren’t they bored?

“What are you doing?” he hissed at the angel a few hours later.

He looked up, blue eyes blinking at the snake dangling from the apple tree branches. “Oh, hello. Just, ah, placing a sign here. Orders, you see.”

“Ordersss,” he echoed, and Aziraphale helpfully pointed upwards.

“Yes, from, er, on high, as it were.”

“Yesss, I _know_ where you get them. But a sssign?”

His bright white robes rustled smartly as he straightened his spine and his shoulders. The sword gave a brief burst of flame, but stayed at his hip and in its sheath. “You, of all beings, should not judge the choices of Heaven.”

“I think I’m in a very unique posssition of being able to judge,” he disagreed.

“No, you _are_ the judged. She has already punished you.”

He slithered further along the branch, expression as sour as a snake’s could be. He couldn’t even narrow his eyes with the whole lack of an eyelid. Terrible design flaw, if Someone asked him.[5] “And you think you won’t be? Roaming around down here when you’re sssupposed to be up there? Letting a demon in the garden?”

“All you do is nap and explore. I hardly see what foul deeds you could get up to here.”

“Lisssten to me, angel-”

“Aziraphale.” 

There was a beat, several of them while the snake processed this. It was quite the mouthful, certainly angelic, but also a bit... Well, it wasn’t a name the snake knew. There had been a great many angels in Heaven before half of them had Fallen, but there was usually a knowing behind hearing a name. A recognition that wasn’t there among demons when they learned one another’s monikers. Probably because those had been thrust upon them by Satan and not by Her, but he supposed this could be another thing he’d lost. Another connection gone.

“I’m new,” Aziraphale continued, answering questions the snake wouldn’t have asked.[6] “Came into being after the Fall, you see. Just to be here.” He looked about, soft smile curving pink lips and the snake realized he still had a heart and that it could do somersaults in his chest. “Of course, I had to get all the battle training. To handle the sword and to, ah, one day lead a platoon of angels against demons when, well, when this is all over again.” The smile faded, but he quickly shook himself out of the shocking burst of sorrow. Of something not _just_ good. “Anyway, I suppose I must be going. Farewell, you wily Serpent of Eden. Get off that tree now. Someone may smite you.”

The only being who knew he was there, the one whose _job_ it was to smite him, flew into the sky and onto his wall once again. The snake did indeed fall out of the tree, but he didn't stop there. Confusion and something else rolling through him, he sank into the dirt. Maybe some time in Hell would clear his head and remove the frisson of _worry_ that had wound its way through his body. If Aziraphale stopped being Perfectly Good, he’d surely Fall and that...

Well, he didn’t want that. For whatever odd reason, he didn’t want this particular angel to experience the volume of loss and the sheer pain of a broken heart. That loss of Her presence had driven so many to sheer madness, and he couldn’t fathom the same happening to an angel who would tiptoe through a garden and giggle so happily to himself. Too sweet for Hell.

And he didn’t particularly think he suited the depths himself. Beelzebub had to be evaded when they saw him slinking around the dingy hallways of Hell. And he surfaced in the garden on the heels of their shouts, “Zzztay up there and make zzzome trouble! You’re a demon now!”

A demon now. Right. He surfaced near Eve, gazing at her as she took a page from his book and sunned her dark skin under the sun’s warm rays. She’d be hungry soon, he thought, looking beyond her to the Tree of Knowledge. The apples that looked cool and crisp and so very tempting. One bite couldn’t hurt and how, he wondered, could knowing the difference between right and wrong really be the worst thing in the newly created world?

It could make things more fun, for a start.

\----

What it did, what neither angel nor demon could predict, was make things far more difficult. Honestly, the snake may have been content to live with the boredom had he known just how serious the Almighty meant that single rule to be.[7] At least for a few years. And the angel, the heart in his chest beating so very fast, hadn’t known it would be quite so serious either. Banished from the garden, yet had no avenue of escape. The gate was not really a gate, not on the ground level anyway, and these humans had not been designed with wings.

Nor had they been designed with strength.[8]

Aziraphale returned to Eden with explicit instructions from the Archangels in light of Eve and Adam eating the apple. They were to stay in the garden and receive the punishment owed, but Eve’s belly was rounded with something wondrous called a baby and, oh, they were so clever in the way they fashioned leaves together to hide their bodies. So imaginative. So intriguing.

He’d been charged first with their protection and found himself incapable of disobeying those orders. Those which had come from the Lord Herself and not from his fellow angels, furious and shocked that a demon had snuck into Eden and that these humans who had been given everything would so quickly rebel. Too much like the Fallen, Aziraphale supposed, and left his wall to touch the grass below. The garden was dying already. The Archangels believed the humans should die with it.[9]

Clinging to the hope that he was doing the right thing, Aziraphale hit the wall once, and the stone broke apart. Pieces crumbled away, leaving a hole big enough for the humans to escape. They could surely survive the deserts beyond. God had created them as She had the angels, and they were certainly capable of surviving difficult situations. Even without wings and strength, humans couldn't possibly be entirely hopeless, could they? 

He tucked himself away nearby just to make sure they would see the hole when they drew near and gasped quietly when he heard a soft, familiar hiss. The demon, he realized, and his hand fell to the hilt of his flaming sword with intention for the first time. The wicked tempter, Serpent of Eden, had made a mockery of God’s plans for this grand garden and Aziraphale simply could not, in all good faith, allow him to... to... _Oh_. Oh, dear.

The wily thing was leading them to the hole in the wall. Not quickly, no, but purposefully all the same. Aziraphale watched his head tip up now and again, searching the wall above, searching for him most likely. He wasn’t there, obviously, but the demon didn’t seem to realize that. Perhaps he was trying to take advantage of what he believed to be a handy absence and was rescuing the humans he'd so thoroughly tempted. When Adam saw the break in the stone, the snake slithered away without so much as a by-your-leave.

A job well done, Aziraphale thought, watching his tail disappear into the dirt. To Hell, he assumed, and looked back at Adam and Eve and their leafy clothes. They knew that they had done wrong, now that the Perfect Goodness of Eden had been stripped away. They knew concepts like escape, fleeing trouble, _trouble_ itself. And they knew they were heading straight into more of it as they entered Earth in all its unknown splendor. They also knew fear, poor things.

It would be cold in the desert, as it was every night, and they didn’t know how to make a fire of their own. The animals were as deadly and dangerous outside as the chill, and wouldn’t letting them go out defenseless just be unfair? Aziraphale wasn’t defenseless, after all. He’d been given a sword. A sword to protect humans, no matter that Gabriel said his sword was for battle. He saw it differently

He’d use it differently.

As Adam and Eve drew near the hole in the Eastern Gate, its guardian stepped forward with a hand outstretched and a flaming sword grasped in the other. He didn’t think twice. “Here you go. It’s a flaming sword to keep you safe. Now don’t go thanking me, my dears, just take it. Careful now, there we are. Excellent. May I-?” he asked, and Eve let him feel the babe kicking inside. Like the fluttering of a butterfly’s wing. “Oh...” As much as he ached to bless them, to give them something more, that would just be a little _too_ against the rules now. “Off you go, then. Don’t let the sun go down on you here,” he urged, freely letting them through the Eastern Gate.

And then, as they made their way across the desert sands, Aziraphale turned towards the gap he’d made and began to repair it. A miracle would be the quickest way to go about it, of course, but it felt better this way. It was the human way, after all.[10]

As he fit the final stone back into place, he had no time to feel a rush of satisfaction. Light beamed down upon him and Her voice echoed all around. Aziraphale swallowed, part of him expecting to be made to Fall right then and there. She knew. She must know.

“Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate-”

“Y-yes, Lord?” he interrupted, nerves fluttering in his tone. _Please, I only wanted them to be safe. There’s still such good in them. Surely, You see-_

“Where is the flaming sword I gave you, Aziraphale, to guard the gate of Eden?”

“Sw-sword? Right. Um.” He made a show of searching for it, shocked. Did She not know? How could She not _know_? “Uh. Big sharp cutty thing, yes. Heh. Ah. Oh! Must’ve, uh, must’ve put it down here somewhere. Um.” He was a wretched liar, he realized. “Forget my own head next.” The light was gone, and he didn’t know when it had left. He also didn’t know why he still had his grace. Wasn’t this just the sort of thing angels Fell for? 

Though now that She had left, fresh worry rose like bile in his throat. He didn’t know what Gabriel was going to do to him.

“Oh, dear,” he said to himself and made his way back to the wall to watch Adam and Eve’s journey across the sand.

He didn’t have to wait long before he was joined, the demon equally curious to see how the humans fared. It was the first time he’d joined Aziraphale on the wall, but he felt no more ill at ease as when he’d first slithered up to him in the garden below. He should have, certainly, as he’d been warned time and again against fraternizing with these demons. But they, like the humans, were God’s creatures. And the wily serpent hadn’t done a single thing to harm him, despite having his share of chances. He wasn’t going to be the rude one and attack first.

Though he did watch with some nervous interest out of the corner of his eye as the snake took on a different form. Brilliant black wings spread out behind him, his robes as black as Aziraphale’s were white, and his hair was a vibrant red that spilled down his back in lovely curls.

Not that he would ever find a demon lovely. No. Not at all.

“Well, that went down like a lead balloon.”

He gave something of a nod, laugh nervous, but then he realized he hadn’t actually heard a word. The demon sounded different with a man’s vocal cords instead of a snake’s. “Sorry, what was that?”

“I said, ‘Well, that went down like a lead balloon.’”

“Yes. _Yes_.” Aziraphale looked out at the desert, determined not to stare at the demon. Or to think about what a lead balloon was. Something that went down hard and sharp, he gathered. “It did, rather.”

“Bit of an overreaction, if you ask me. First offence and everything, y’know...” Aziraphale looked at him, drawn right back into staring and catching the demon looking at him in turn. The entirety of his eyes were golden but for that slitted pupil, still very snakelike. “I can’t see what’s so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil anyway.”

Aziraphale gave a small gasp, finding this version more difficult to speak to than the snake. “Well, it must _be_ bad...” He trailed off, looking at him questioningly.

“Crawly,” he said quickly, as if he’d only been waiting to be asked.

“Crawly,” Aziraphale replied, tasting the name on his tongue and finding it to not be quite right. Perhaps because none of this was quite right. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have tempted them into it.” 

“Ahh,” he started shaking his head a little, “they just said get up there and make some trouble.”

“Well, obviously, you’re a demon. It’s what you do.”

“Not very subtle of the Almighty, though. Fruit tree in the middle of a garden with a 'don’t touch' sign.” He made a few noises that suggested his vocal cords were a little more snakelike than they should be. “Why not put it on top of a high mountain? Or on the moon?” he suggested, and Aziraphale glanced skyward. “Makes you wonder what God’s really planning.”

“Best not to speculate. It’s all part of the Great Plan. It’s not for us to understand.” Because maybe he’d had similar questions. Maybe he’d wondered why the tree had been planted to begin with. He knew better than to voice those concerns, though, deciding, “It’s ineffable.”

“The Great Plan’s _ineffable_?”

“Exactly.” Feeling better about it, Aziraphale didn’t notice Crawly’s gaze drifting down to his hip. “It is beyond understanding and incapable of being put into words.”

“Didn’t you have a flaming sword?” 

Now he noticed where his gaze had traveled. “Uh.”

“You _did_. It was flaming like anything. What happened to it?” Aziraphale let out a long, stuttery sort of sound as he sought a lie, and Crawly’s expression shifted to amused smugness. “Lost it already, have you?”

He looked down. “Gave it away,” he mumbled.

“You _wot_?”

“I gave it away!” Aziraphale looked at Crawly then, eyes wide and fearful as he admitted what he hadn’t even admitted to God. His excuses tumbled out with it, his reasonings. “There are vicious animals, it’s going to be _cold_ out there, and she’s expecting already! And I said, ‘Here you go, flaming sword, don’t thank me. And don’t let the sun go down on you here.’” He looked back out to the desert, searching for the two humans dotting the landscape, and his frantic tone softened. “I do hope I didn’t do the _wrong_ thing.”

“Oh, you’re an angel. I don’t think you can do the wrong thing.”

“Oh- _oh_! Oh, thank- Oh, thank you.” To be soothed by a demon. It must have been a sin of some sort, but Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to care in that moment. He took the comfort offered with gratitude. “Oh. It’s been bothering me.”

In the distance, Adam started swinging his newly acquired sword in defense against an approaching lion while Eve laid protective hands over her swollen stomach and backed away. “Yeah, I’ve been worrying too,” Crawly admitted. “What if I did the right thing with the whole eat the apple business? Demon can get into a lot of trouble for doing the right thing.” Adam killed the lion, Aziraphale pressing his lips together and not pouting. Could it be bad if it was in self-defense? In the protection of his lady and their unborn child? “Be funny if we both got it wrong, eh? If I did the good thing and you did the bad one?” Crawly laughed a little, just to himself, and Aziraphale answered, distracted.

And then he realized what he was laughing about and stopped abruptly. “No! Wouldn’t be funny at all!”

Crawly’s head tilted in acceptance of this. “Well...”

Thunder rumbled overheard and he briefly, foolishly, thought that the sky was crying before the right words tumbled into his mind. They didn’t seem to tumble into Crawly’s, as he shuffled a little closer to Aziraphale.

The angel swung a white wing up, covering the demon and giving him shelter in this new thing called a storm. He’d once been Hers, and he was so unexpectedly kind for a demon. He’d guided the humans to the hole in the wall, to freedom, and had then let them choose whether or not to take those last steps. He encouraged them to have choice, to use their coveted Free Will.

So, no, not like any of the demons Aziraphale had been warned against at all. Aziraphale found himself hoping they’d run into one another again one day, hopeful that their time on Earth would last.[11]

\----

Heaven was far colder than the desert. Far colder than the garden had been, too.

Aziraphale’s hands clasped behind his back, fingers twisting the golden ring on his pinky as he looked from Gabriel to Uriel to Michael to Sand- He skipped Sandalphon[12] and looked at Gabriel again, clearing his throat. “E-excuse me?”

It was so very cold. The chill went through his robes and into his very skin, which shouldn’t have been possible and he was clearly overreacting. Heaven was a safe place. He was an angel. The Lord had yet to mention his sword again and no one seemed wise to its absence. They didn’t seem to pay him much attention at all, which was quite the shock. He’d thought, as humans had begun to multiply, that he would have help. 

Two demons who were not nearly as amusing as Crawly had surfaced on Earth and, the demon had casually explained, he should probably get used to that as more humans were born. Everyone needed a break from Hell now and again.

Though, if he was understanding things correctly, Cain would one day be Hell’s first guest. The babe he’d felt kicking in Eve’s belly at the beginning of things, the one he’d quietly encouraged to farm and put down roots, had done the unthinkable under his nose. Abel was now Heaven’s first guest. “He didn’t-”

“He did,” Uriel interrupted, tone flat and final.

“Unfortunately, Aziraphale, that’s several strikes against you now.” Gabriel tsked, gesturing to the angel at his side. “Sandalphon?”

He cleared his throat, drawing himself up to his full, unimpressive height. “Cain has murdered his brother out of a thing called _envy_. The demon Crawly has been allowed to infest humanity with _evil_.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to defend Crawly, but fell silent instead. The demon had been more interested in farming techniques than in tempting anyone to evil. Mischief, yes, and some squabbling had resulted, but never anything as evil as murder. Nothing that sounded so bad as envy either. He was very hands-off, letting the humans make their own decisions, and Aziraphale had tried to take on a little more of a hands-on approach. More direct blessings, helping them flourish in every way he could.

“Well, I- I should, ah... fix this.”

“We’ll leave it for your replacement,” Michael stated.[13]

Aziraphale only had a single moment to send her a shocked glance before things went very dark.

\----

Crawly waited.

Adam and Eve passed away, their children passed away, their childrens’ children passed away. Humanity began to expand, pockets of them exploring the world and heading off to form other groups across the globe. They had such a big, wide world to explore. Crawly couldn’t blame them for it, and it was exciting to see cities being built and communities come into being. It was _thrilling_ to see their imaginations unfold and he was eager to share every development with the Angel of the Eastern Gate.

Or was he Angel of the Earth now? Crawly didn’t know, but it was a question he had for him when he returned.

Crawly added more questions to a mental list as he waited for him to, gaze scanning the sky more and more often as the days, months, years, decades went by. He spent many nights looking at the stars, gaze tracing the constellations he’d drawn. Where was Aziraphale?

Where was _any_ angel?

He started making things up in his reports to Hell, not wanting the lack of angels to result in an influx of demons. Tales of bad deeds being thwarted, tales of bad deeds not thwarted, tales of thwarting good deeds - anything to say “there’s an angel here and he’s a pain in the arse, stay away.”

He’d left so abruptly, smiling one moment and then twisting his pinky ring in the next. “Oh, dear...”

“What?”

“I’m being called. I can’t imagine why.”

“Ah. Well. S’pose I’ll see you soon, then.”

“Of course.” He’d smiled again, wings giving a little bit of a flutter. “Well- well, not of course. I shouldn’t be seeing you. You’re a demon. These are chance encounters. Nothing more.”

Crawly had grinned. “Right.”

With a little glare that hadn’t fully masked his amusement, whatever Aziraphale might’ve been telling himself in the moment, he’d been gone.

And now Crawly waited, wondering what had happened to their chance encounters.

* * *

* * *

### Footnotes

1. Sometimes he thought he was at the very bottom of the list, but would never ask that particular question.↩

2. Alright, yes, he did miss Her and all that freely given love and, okay, being able to form stars was incomparable to anything he could do as a demon. But given the choice? He was quite happy to stay as he was.↩

3. Not that he disliked sleep himself. He’d already discovered a penchant for sunning his scales on the sun-kissed rocks, snoozing in a tight coil. The height of decadence.↩

4. Or so he thought. The Angel of the Eastern Gate had very quietly whispered “damn” to himself after being pricked by a rosebush’s thorn hours earlier.↩

5. No one did, but can you imagine? They’d look absurd.↩

6. At least not for, say, six thousand years.↩

7. He only believed this when things were at their hardest. i.e. The Fourteenth Century.↩

8. For the record, Aziraphale would not call these flaws if asked.↩

9. Sandalphon had said this with a gleam in his eye that wouldn’t be seen again until Sodom and Gomorrah, and Aziraphale had fixed him with a startled look. What a terrible thought, still surprised no one had spoken up against it.↩

10. Besides, he’d already been reprimanded for frivolous miracles when his robes had gotten wet in the water or when the prick of that rosebush had caused the tiniest drop of blood. Or when he’d politely asked the grape vine to grow a little faster. That last one surely shouldn’t have counted, but alas.↩

11. Well...↩

12. Who can blame him? I’d rather look at Gabriel too.↩

13. Not that any angels were clamoring to leave the safety of Heaven and brave the filth of Earth.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at [SylWritesStuff](https://sylwritesstuff.tumblr.com/)! Hoping to update this every Wednesday :D Chapter count may change.


	2. Who Wants to Live Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mesopotamia, Golgotha, and Rome would all be better if Aziraphale remembered him. The Kingdom of West Essex, however, was worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of my chapter titles are going to be songs, I think. How well they stay on theme is debatable, lmao, but [here's the one for this chapter](https://open.spotify.com/track/6UnGBNWVuwYfdDo9NfKkpP?si=1FjiqB20Qpaj_nybFg3RTg)  
> As with last time, all my thanks goes to my lovely beta, [SkimmingTheSurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface)! She's fantastic and wonderful and talented :D

_Have you ever met someone for the first time,  
_ _but in your heart you feel as if you’ve met them before?_

― JoAnne Kenrick

  
  


* * *

**_3004 B.C.  
_** **_Mesopotamia_ **

Their next chance encounter[14] nearly took a thousand years. A crowd had gathered in Mesopotamia, a hub for some of the most sinful activities around. Crawly had actually been avoiding the area himself, visits generally just making him want to sink into the alcohol these clever humans had concocted out of the grapes Aziraphale had so loved in Eden. Thoughts of him didn’t result in a skyward glance, though, not this day. There was only one being dressed in white amongst the gathered crowd, his wild, white-blond curls blowing in the breeze of an impending storm.

Animals were walking towards an enormous wooden boat, just two of each loading in and being checked off of a list by a nervous man who kept looking towards the sky. Crawly didn’t pay him any mind, didn’t pay any of it any mind. He tapped Aziraphale’s shoulder, then appeared on his other side. “Hel _lo_ , Aziraphale,” he greeted, sing-song and just so bloody happy. It had been far too long. 

Aziraphale briefly touched the wooden fence, then clasped his hands together as he looked over. Recognition did not flicker in blue eyes, but Crawly wasn’t immediately offended. His hair was in somewhat of disarray, a braid or two tumbling through the red curls[15] and it _had_ been nearly a thousand years. He’d give him a break this time. “Hello,” Aziraphale greeted, casting a nervous gaze around him and then to the big boat again.

“So,” Crawly wondered, drinking him in, so awed to see him, “giving the mortals a flaming sword - how did that work out for you?”

Aziraphale blinked. “Beg pardon?”

“You _know_. Or is it a secret? Upstairs watching? Hm?”

Aziraphale looked skyward, then sent Crawly a puzzled, polite smile before trying to take a step away. They were pinned between a fence and the crowd, though, so he had nowhere to go. Some of Crawly’s pleasure at seeing him faltered and he cleared his throat. Coming on too strong, he supposed. They were technically enemies still, but he wasn’t going to let a little thing like that shoo him away. He hadn’t seen another angel or demon in more than a century now, and being alone in a sea of humanity could wear on someone.[16]

“What’s all this about?” he asked, changing the subject to make it easier for him. “Build a big boat and fill it with a traveling zoo?”

“Oh. A- a zoo? I don’t- The animals, you mean? Ah. Er. Noah, up there, and his family. They’ve built this- They’re calling it an Ark, you see.” Aziraphale’s hands fluttered as he spoke, gesturing towards the man checking things off a list and the handful of people with him. “He says, ah, he says the Almighty told him to build it.”

“Oh, did She? Lofty.”

“‘She?’”

“Oh, has She changed it? They? He?” Crawly smiled slightly. “I mean, I am a demon but I’m not going to step on anyone’s pronouns.”

The color seemed to drain from Aziraphale’s face. “What?”

“What?” Crawly echoed, eyeing him quietly. His shoulders slumped a little. “Haven’t forgotten about me, have you, angel? It’s Crawly.”

Lashes fluttered, a pretty color dusting his cheeks. “‘Angel?’” he echoed, voice like a whisper. “My dear fellow, have we-”

A gaggle of children ran alongside the animals, giggling and distracting Crawly. He smiled as they sped by. “Y’know, there weren’t nearly this many kids roaming the last time I saw you. Got no idea where they come from. Think the Almighty just sort of, y’know, pops them into bellies?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Well, every child is certainly a blessing. Though I’m not sure I would phrase it quite that way. Are- are you alright?”

“Course. I’m fine, angel. Oi, Shem!” he yelled, pointing at a fleeing steed. “That unicorn’s gonna make a run for it! Nyah, s’too late.” He looked back at the boat while thunder began to rumble overhead. It wasn’t safe, he’d found, to be out in thunderstorms. Lightning was a thoroughly dangerous creation and one little unicorn wouldn’t make that big of a difference in all this chaos. “Too late! Aw, you still got one of ‘em!”

He squinted upwards as another boom of thunder brought the rain, the crowd around them beginning to dissipate. If part of Crowley expected - hoped - for a wing to cover him, it didn’t happen and he ignored the disappointment. Not the sort of thing one got away with amidst a gaggle of humans.

“What thick rain,” Aziraphale remarked, looking at his clothes as the droplets began to dampen them. “Gosh.”

“Yeah. Odd for the area, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “You know, I had heard a rumor that it could rain for forty days and forty nights. Can you imagine the flooding in an area like this were that to pass?”

Crawly stopped squinting at the dark clouds to stare at him instead. “Is that what’s happening?”

“Hm?”

“Is that the only boat?” He pointed at the Ark, hearing the squeals of children running for shelter from the rain. _Away_ from the boat. “Angel?”

Aziraphale’s hands fluttered nervously, confusion rippling over his features. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Nor do I understand why you keep calling me that. I don’t _know_ you.”

Crawly blinked his serpentine eyes. “Wot?”

“You should get out of the rain, dear boy.” Aziraphale gave him a brief pat and turned away, leaving with the crowd as the rain came down from above.

Later, tucked in a corner of the Ark with frightened children gathered around him and a constant thrum of miracles to keep seasickness at bay, Crawly felt that angelic presence wink out of existence and wondered what it had all meant.

\----

**_33 A.D.  
_** **_Golgotha_ **

There were more meetings across the next three thousand years, human history rolling through in fascinating ways. The newly dubbed Crowley got used to the flashes of angelic presences, always going to see the one and only angel who ever appeared. And yet he _never_ seemed to know who Crowley was and he seemed to be playing games with his corporation. He was also always flustered at every mention of “angel,” though it hardly dissuaded Crowley from using it. He didn’t seem offended, after all, merely baffled. Maybe a little charmed now and again, but he never acknowledged things from Heaven beyond a casual belief in its existence and in the goodness of God.

Crowley wouldn’t have called this worse than not seeing him between Cain going behind both of their backs to murder his brother and Noah’s Ark, but it was a close thing, this constant lack of remembering. It was almost insulting, yet she knew Aziraphale wasn’t doing these things on purpose. Sometimes he wouldn’t even present in the right body. Or, well, the right body, but the wrong age. Sometimes he was far too young so Crowley would alter his/her own corporation accordingly. The youthful frames never seemed to suit the angel, though, and he seemed just as uncomfortable. Or perhaps just uncertain. Crowley had no idea why he'd ever see the need to change, and he never answered when Crowley asked. 

One thing the demon did become rather adept at was reading clues. It seemed to be the only way Aziraphale was willing to communicate with her, telling her Heavenly secrets as if they were just odd thoughts which had occurred to him in the moment. The odd “rumor” he’d hear now and again, and those would be Crowley’s cues to handle something. It was damned exhausting, though, and she wished Aziraphale would just speak plainly. She wished they could talk about the passage of time, about all the things humanity had done and been through since Eden.

She wished, sometimes, that she could apologize for tempting Eve into biting the apple because the first four thousand years of humanity had been _awful_. At least some of it. God’s wrath was overwhelming at times and she thought all the smiting was a bit, well, _evil_. She really didn’t have to do much as Hell, as clueless about Heaven’s terrors as Crowley, usually gave her credit for these acts and Crowley didn’t argue. The better a job they thought she was doing, the more they would leave her alone. Every demon who came topside was like an irritating mosquito and she so wished she could complain about them to Aziraphale. Surely he didn’t enjoy being under Heaven’s thumb quite so firmly either? They could commiserate or _something_.

This seemed a good place to try again, hoping the tragedy would open Aziraphale to her a little. Like he’d been in Eden. Like he’d been after right up until that frightful summons back to Heaven. Four thousand years was a very long time to miss someone.

As Roman soldiers hammered nails into the Christ’s palms, Crowley stepped up to Aziraphale’s side. He was alone, wringing his hands together, and Crowley didn’t expect to be recognized. She never did anymore, but especially not this time. To commiserate with distraught Mary, she’d let her form turn towards the feminine.

“Come to smirk at the poor bugger, have you?”

“Smirk?” Aziraphale asked, sparing her a glance. “Me?”

“Well, your lot put him on there.”

Aziraphale blinked at her, those wild curls hidden by a turban. “I beg your pardon. I, for one, am quite... _hurt_ by what Judas has done. The betrayal is... It’s-”

“Ineffable?” she wondered quietly, sadly. They weren’t going to talk about it then. It would be like all the other times, an angel pretending not to be.

“Unfathomable,” Aziraphale murmured, gaze returning to the man on his cross.

“Right. Angel, can we please-”

“‘Angel?’” Aziraphale echoed and it was like a broken record now. “Do I know you, my dear?”

“S’pose not. It’s Crowley. My name.” She’d changed it and wanted to tell him why, but Aziraphale only nodded absently.

“Lovely to meet you, then. I’m Aziraphale. This is so tragic,” he murmured after a quiet beat. “He’s so young and his family’s just up there. Oh, I’ve seen him perform so many miracles... Did you, uh, ever meet him?”

“Yes,” she admitted. “Seemed a very bright young man. I showed him all the kingdoms of the world.”

Aziraphale gave the softest, briefest of laughs. “You wily thing,” he said quietly. “To make jokes at a time like this.”

As if Crowley had actually made a joke instead of admitting to something that could get her thrown into the deepest pits of Hell. She’d called it temptation in the paperwork, but it had only been a kind thing to do in the moment. A way to show this carpenter with limited travel opportunities the world. She wanted to tell Aziraphale that, but didn’t.

“What was it he said that got everybody so upset?” she asked instead. 

“Be _kind_ to each other.”

“Oh, yeah, that’ll do it.”

He kept quiet, they both did, as the cross and the son of God upon it were pushed into the air. “You know,” Aziraphale whispered when he was high in the sky and the murmurs of the crowd reached a dull roar of upset, “I’ve heard that he’ll rise again. In three days.”

“Oh,” Crowley murmured. “That would be quite the miracle.”

“I pray that he will.”

Crowley gazed at Aziraphale’s profile, wishing her own prayers still held weight.

\----

**_41 A.D.  
_** **_Rome_ **

The place was fucking _exhausting_. He’d never felt so completely out of touch fashion-wise, but _Rome_. Satan help him, but Rome was a shock to the system. His flavian hairstyle was apparently appropriate for _women_ , but the gender-specific fashion trends had always annoyed him. Right from the start. And then the laurel wreath he’d added was more akin to funeral wear and, well, when in Hell was someone going to tell him that?[17]

Not only that, but the style of his brooch was wrong, his toga and the extra bits weren’t quite correct, and _Caligula was a bastard_! A true, disgusting mess of human filth. Where were those smite-happy angels now that the Christ had died and risen, hm? Where were God’s angry signs and symbols? Or was She no longer in the market of mass murder?

He aimed his gaze upwards through the new tinted lenses he at least thought were fashionable. They were certainly handy in hiding his snake eyes from the world. Parts of Greece had thought him to be a god, but the lowercase nature of that was an insult and, well, he wasn’t actively trying to keep to a polytheistic belief structure. Hell would rather he did, though. All the false idol worship meant plenty of false idol worshippers to fill Hell’s depths. They were beating Heaven in that regard, and maybe that was part of the problem? The Aziraphale problem, not the blending into Earth problem.

He slithered into a pub, no idea where the ale or mead were that he’d become accustomed to over the millenia and slumped onto a seat at the bar. Fuck Rome. “What’ve you got? Give me a jug of whatever you think’s drinkable,” he demanded. 

“Jug of house brown,” the barmaid - or whatever it was Rome called them - set a jug on the bar before him. He didn’t know what house brown was, but as long as it let him get drunk and less miserable he’d be happy. In a manner of speaking. “Two sesterces.”

He sure as Hell didn’t need two of those, whatever they were. She looked at him expectantly and he lifted his hand in realization. _Payment_. Fucking Hell, Rome was irritating. He passed over the coins and reached for the jug, shaking his head all the while. The clay handle nearly broke in his hand when he heard a tentative, “Hullo.”

 _Aziraphale_.

He whipped around, stunned to see him. Stunned to be approached. Stunned that he looked like he actually belonged in Rome with his white toga and angel wing brooch and- Okay, the white curls were out of place, but he looked comfortable. And if Crowley wasn’t going completely mad, he thought Aziraphale looked... eight years older. But that was-

Their corporations didn’t age. They didn’t change unless they willed them to. Changing ages that way was one thing, but natural progression? What the Hell kind of game was Aziraphale playing at?

Apparently, he stared too long because the angel’s fingers fluttered nervously. “So sorry to bother you, my dear fellow. I’ll leave you alone if you like. I merely- You seemed so unhappy, and I wondered if I might help? In some way? You seem new to Rome.”

Crowley poured as he rambled. “Just nipped in for a quick temptation,” he replied, taking a drink. House brown was definitely alcoholic. It would do the trick, especially when Aziraphale’s smile turned uncertain.

“Pardon?”

“Yesss,” he hissed, but there was no flash of recognition. There was _nothing_. It had only been eight bloody years. Female or not, he should _remember_. “Yes,” he said again, “I’m new to Rome. Had a wretched day.”

“Oh. So sorry to hear it.” Aziraphale perched on the seat beside him and Crowley frowned, wondering what was happening. Trying to piece it all together. Millennia of him approaching Aziraphale and now the tables had turned and he _still_ didn’t know him. And he’d seen Aziraphale try to lie before. He’d seen it and he’d been absolutely horrendous at it, tripping over himself and stumbling. He wasn’t an actor by any means, so how was he pulling this off? What was the damn trick?

He poured Aziraphale a cup when the barmaid set a second one down, and slid it over. “Do angels drink alcohol?”

Aziraphale laughed in a way he hadn’t heard since Eden. “Terribly sorry to disappoint, but I’m not an angel. Just a man trying to do a simple good deed.”

Crowley missed him. He ached for missing him and he was right there, right next to him, right within reach. So far away he might as well still be in Heaven. “Salutaria,” Aziraphale offered, holding his drink up with a smile. Crowley didn’t want to, but for once, he played along. Maybe this would help his day - pretending to be nothing more than a human instead of a demon with a shit job and an angel with short term memory loss by his side.

“In Rome long?”

Hell no. “Long enough, I s’pose. What’s good here?”

“Oh, there’s plenty. Art and music and, oh, the _food_. You know, today I planned to go to Petronius’s new restaurant. I hear he does _remarkable_ things to oysters,” he gushed, tipping towards Crowley.

Crowley lifted his drink. “I’ve never eaten an oyster.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s cup stopped halfway to his lips and he lowered it, gripping it with both hands as he gazed at Crowley’s profile. “Oh, well, let me tempt you to-” Crowley reared back and stared at him, making him falter. “Well, I- Oh, dear, you don’t need to, ah... Hm.”

Crowley couldn’t quite fight his smile so took another drink to hide it. Tempting was his area of expertise, not an angel’s,[18] but he found he couldn’t resist. “I’d love to go with you.”

“Really?” Aziraphale’s floundering smile returned, shy and terribly sweet. “Wonderful. It’s sure to put you in excellent spirits.”

He wasn’t wrong, Crowley thought as they stumbled back to the home Aziraphale had settled into. It was smaller than he would’ve expected for an angel, but they made their way inside because Aziraphale claimed to have some proper wine. He didn’t know what he’d expected from the oysters, frankly, but they’d been slimy. Slimy and surprisingly good. Almost as good as watching Aziraphale eat them. They were better than watching him pop one grape after another into his mouth, certainly. Oysters he held up to his lips, head tipped back, a slurp that had gone straight between Crowley's legs spilling from him[19] \- it was just the sort of tormenting temptation he'd expect from a demon, not an angel. 

He wasn’t expecting an angel to back him into the door either. He wasn’t expecting warm lips against his. Oh, no, but he didn’t push Aziraphale away either. Aziraphale’s arms lifted, wrapped around his neck, and a moan spilled between them. Crowley couldn’t have said who made the sound, but knew he made the next as he hauled Aziraphale closer.

He tasted of oysters and alcohol, but Crowley fisted his hands in that white toga and lapped into his mouth to find the rest, to find Aziraphale and not the human coating, and it was like holding a star again. Crowley groaned, then groaned again when he pressed a leg between Aziraphale’s to find him hard and wanting through that thin toga. The laurel wreath was knocked aside when Aziraphale’s hands delved into short hair to ruin the careful curls, but the clatter it made upon hitting the floor jerked Crowley back. The kiss broke on a gasp, Crowley choking on it when Aziraphale’s mouth simply lowered to his throat. “Angel-”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, shivering against him, “I do like to be called that. You’ve done it all afternoon.”

For millennia. Crowley closed his eyes, hands sliding down to grip Aziraphale’s waist. He wanted nothing more than to use that grip to hold him closer, to never let go, to kiss him and kiss him and stay with him so Aziraphale could never forget his face again. Instead, he used it to nudge him back a step and lost the enticing warmth against his thigh.

“Crowley?”

Crowley shook his head against Aziraphale’s soft, hurt confusion and against his own swirling emotions. His own confusion, his own hurt, his own want - he was too drunk for this, so his body tensed and the alcohol fled his system. Instead of drunk and hard and confused, he was sober and hard and confused. And _angry_. It was too real to be an act. The whole time in the restaurant, Aziraphale had answered his questions with ease. He’d told him about _parents_ , about following Jesus Christ and being utterly fascinated by him, about the move to Rome after the resurrection to spread the word and some good cheer in the process. A dangerous thing to do, but he felt it his duty. He was going to encourage some young man to play the fucking violin. 

Aziraphale wasn’t lying about not knowing him. He wasn’t pretending to be a human. Something was _wrong_ , and it was infuriating. He couldn’t help, didn’t know how. He was just a demon with no sway up above and they shouldn’t be-

“Are You trying to make him Fall?” he demanded of the ceiling. “Is that what You want?”

Aziraphale gave him an odd look, taking a step away from him. This time he didn't need any nudging, and Crowley's hands fell away. “I don’t understand. I thought-”

He broke off when Crowley’s gaze fell, staring at him over the top of his tiny shades. And then he was gone with a snap. He wasn’t going to play this game. Hadn’t he been punished enough? Hadn’t he seen enough angels Fall without being directly responsible for one? He didn’t know what Heaven was trying to do, but he hated it.

He hated that he knew what Aziraphale’s mouth tasted like when the angel wouldn’t remember his name the next time they met. Sweeter than any forbidden apple, tart and crisp and _holy_. He rearranged his body so there were no dangly bits available to feel arousal, and collapsed in a bed he found in an inn, expecting the door to stay closed for the next week. It took nearly that long for Crowley to fall asleep, and it was a fitful one full of one angel in Eden.

If only he’d tasted him then...

\----

**_537 A.D.  
_** **_Kingdom of West Essex_ **

There was such magic in King Arthur’s kingdom. Not quite what the storybooks would one day print, but every day was certainly an adventure. While Sir Aziraphale didn’t particularly enjoy the bloodshed,[20] he understood his place in the world[21] and did all that he could to fight for good and justice.

The Black Knight, spreading his ill will and obvious malcontent needed a dose of good justice. Sir Aziraphale walked ahead of his servant, cream-colored cloak swaying with every step through the damp mists. People often marvelled at how clean he was able to keep his light-colored things, not even a speck of blood marring the furs. He himself couldn’t explain it, though something always pulsated oddly against his temple when someone called it a miracle.

He glanced back at his squire and horse, the poor creature in nearly as much shining silver armor as Sir Aziraphale himself, yet he never tired. Other horses did. Other _people_ did, for that matter, but Sir Aziraphale had always found the armor light as a feather. He never sweat, never fell ill, never got hit with arrows or blades - they called it a miracle. After nearly fifty years in this world, it probably was. Sir Aziraphale just couldn’t make himself say the word. He could barely think it.

Instead, he thought about the chill in the air. The damp. The wet crunch of broken stone and soft give of muddied earth. He thought of the Black Knight, of what he’d say to the foul fiend once their paths crossed. He and his band of hooligans would rue the day they decided to start mucking about.

But his helmet was really not helping.

He lifted the faceplate and looked around the mists. “Hello?” he called. There was no response, but he knew someone was near. He didn’t know how he knew, he _never_ understood how he so easily knew things, but he did and was too old not to trust his instincts. He began to walk forward, always searching through the mists as he called out, “I, Sir Aziraphale of the Table Round, am here to speak with the Black Knight.”

And there they were. Grunting and jeering, the faint outlines of people who were up to no good made themselves known in the fog. One rushed closer to him, a hand on the hilt of his sword. Sir Aziraphale didn’t draw his. “Oh. Right. Um... hello,” he greeted with a smile. 

The hunched man beckoned him closer. “Yeah, come.”

Sir Aziraphale’s steps didn’t stop, really, but they did falter as he stammered. “I- I... I- was hoping to- to meet with the Black Knight?”

Someone else’s armor clanked, a poor design choice, really. Protective, yes, but were the sounds really necessary? Sir Aziraphale managed not to sigh, focused on the figure emerging from the fog. He was tall, lanky even in pitch black armor, and Sir Aziraphale couldn’t even begin to explain why anticipation fluttered in his chest. Why he felt as if he knew the man sauntering towards him. Sauntering, Sir Aziraphale thought, something teasing the edges of his mind.

“You have sought the Black Knight, foolish one, but you have found... your death.”

Part of him wanted to smile and laugh, reach out and grasp hands with the threatening man. He’d never felt such a thing so immediately in all his years, and it was incredibly bizarre to feel it now with a wicked presence threatening him. “If it’s all the same to you, dear fellow, I’d really rather have a calm chat?”

He sighed gustily through the mask and flipped it up. It was a different design from Sir Aziraphale’s, covering part of his mouth. Sir Aziraphale’s breath caught as he gazed into unusual, golden eyes. As if they’d been cursed or... or belonged to a stunning black snake, sunbathing on warm rocks by a stream. “Hello,” he greeted, a little breathless.

“Hi,” he replied, waving his hands this way and that to settle his cronies. “It’s alright, lads. I know him. He’s alright.”

No. No, they didn’t know each other. They’d never met before. Sir Aziraphale knew that, but he also knew what that mouth tasted like. He took a step back, unable to help himself, and swallowed. Like smoke and spice and... and stardust. Why would he know that? What on Earth was possessing him to even _think_ he’d know such an intimate detail about another man? Such things were frowned upon in these times, when kisses should only be shared between a man and a woman.[22]

“I have heard, Black Knight, that you and your band of... warriors[23] have been terrorizing the lands. I’ve come to disabuse you of that notion and send you on your peaceful way.”

A brow arched over one golden eye and Sir Aziraphale wanted to smooth his thumb over it, kiss away the exhaustion he could see rippling through this man. “I’m here... spreading foment.”

“What is that, some kind of porridge?”

“No! I’m, y’know, fomenting...” He shook his head, sounding very reasonable for a supposedly violent killer. “Dissent and discord. King Arthur’s been spreading too much peace and tranquility in the land, so I’m here, y’know, fomenting.”

His job, something whispered. His demonic duty. Sir Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth twice before he was able to say, “Yes, but I need you to stop at once. It’s really very inconvenient, and-”

The Black Knight waved a hand dismissively, his armor creaking and squeaking. Sir Aziraphale really wished it would stop, but when it did, both he and this Black Knight could only stare at his still waving hand. “Angel,” he breathed, haggard and with something like hope in his eyes when they flicked to Sir Aziraphale’s terrified ones.

He took another step back. This wasn’t how negotiations were supposed to go. He didn’t understand what had just happened. “I don’t- Have we met somewhere before?”

The Black Knight stepped closer, that hope almost painful to look at and yet Sir Aziraphale could look at nothing else. Want welled up in him. Tears and want and sorrow, apologies and fear. Aziraphale’s breath hitched. “Crowley, you mustn’t-”

“ _Wot_.” His eyes were suddenly like they were in Eden, golden everywhere and so wide, so stunned.

 _I gave it away!_ Aziraphale remembered with a gasp, reaching out when Crowley reached for him, but he was suddenly gone. With a blue glow flooding his armor, spilling out from the cracks, Aziraphale vanished, and his empty armor collapsed into the mud. His squire turned and ran shouting and wailing for help, slipping and stumbling with the horse following slowly behind him now that its armor was suddenly weighted.

Crowley, shaking, grabbed the cloak and slung it over his own shoulders. There was still no mud on it because he didn’t want there to be. It would be a new chapter in his storybook, the Black Knight who could kill with nothing more than an outstretched hand and his eyes. Hell would be thrilled.[24]

* * *

* * *

### Footnotes

14. It was not a chance encounter. Crowley felt an angel’s presence and flew like a madman to see him, but that would be rather demonstrative so we’ll let him have his phrasing.↩

15. Don’t tell Hell, but he had quite the soft spot for children who liked his hair and those little girls had begged and begged - alright, asked once - to braid his hair and he’d allowed it.↩

16. Not him, though, no. Never Crawly. He could handle being on his own, no problem.↩

17\.  ↩

18. Not even an amnesiac of an angel.↩

19. Several slurps. He’d told Aziraphale he wasn’t a fan after eating three just to watch him polish the rest off. And his memory, thankfully or unfortunately, worked just fine.↩

20. He had not, in fact, ever killed anyone. His diplomacy spoke more volumes than his sword, though he had no real idea why his negotiating skills were so spectacular when he tended to overthink and stutter his way through peace talks.↩

21\.  ↩

22. There were exceptions, of course. Sir Aziraphale knew of several and would take their secrets to the grave.↩

23. Sir Aziraphale was nothing if not polite.↩

24. Heaven was less so.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at [SylWritesStuff](https://sylwritesstuff.tumblr.com/) and find my beta at [skimmingmilk](https://skimmingmilk.tumblr.com/).


	3. Whisper Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Aziraphale's mind so bizarrely blank, they both have to go to Edinburgh. But why, Crowley wonders, is he stupid enough to suggest they travel together?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's [the link](https://open.spotify.com/track/4YTgJsUdN5wPiLXEXYbAsS?si=GsI1-93zRHyblh6q7ax8Jg) to this chapter's song. Should I just make a playlist? lol
> 
> Also, as usual, thanks to [SkimmingTheSurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface) for being the fabulous beta you are. Even when you have a migraine

_He does not look at me  
_ _but toward the vast ship,  
_ _and the stars beyond.  
_ _He seems to be waiting for me to speak,  
_ _but for some reason I cannot remember  
_ _what he said last.  
_ _I only know that I am a special case.  
_ _Because I do not know what to ask,  
_ _I say what is most on my mind.  
_ _“When will I see you again...?”_

\- Christopher Pike, 

* * *

**_1601  
_** **_Globe Theatre, London_ **

Crowley spent the next thousand years watching. He watched Aziraphale live and die ten times without approaching him again. The angel was still getting orders from Heaven, still traveling across Europe to spread blessings and miracles, but they were like watching someone stumble into things by accident. People would call him a miracle worker and he'd falter. Nothing obvious and nothing that lingered, but after a millennium of staring at him, just barely doing his own temptations, he thought he knew what was happening. 

He just didn't know _why_. Or, well, he assumed he knew why, but it went deeper than that. It was the point of it that he didn't understand. _Why_ was probably punishment for the whole sword thing. _The point_ was... 

The _point_ was...[25]

For fuck's sake, _what was the point_? 

He followed Aziraphale into the Globe Theatre. This Shakespeare bloke seemed to be turning heads, making up new words to breathe life into his meanings, twisting phrases in fascinating ways. Crowley was a big fan of his comedies and Aziraphale seemed to be a big fan of them all. Crowley had watched him through many shows,[26] never close enough to touch or trigger another sudden discorporation, but he'd watched and he'd missed him all the while. 

So much about life on Earth was wonderful, and he knew Aziraphale was enjoying himself. Around all the assignments he clearly didn't know were just that,[27] he found such pleasure in food and drink, art and music, plays and books. Crowley wanted to share it with him. Even if it had to be from a distance. 

As he pulled - shit. As he _pushed_ at the swinging door to open it, he realized that he wouldn't be able to hide in the crowd. There wasn't one. He could count the number of people on his fingers, breath catching a little. He'd been avoiding this. He didn’t want to watch him discorporate again - or, y'know, he didn’t want to _cause_ it again. 

But he turned before Crowley could flee, freshly purchased grapes in hand, and smiled warm and welcoming before he turned away to look back at the lone actor on stage. Crowley's feet moved on their own, pulled in, heart racing against his orders and beyond his control. He settled beside Aziraphale, circled behind him once, then twice to make sure there were no fractures of blue light through his being. He was _wearing_ some iridescent blue, mixed in with his usual creams and golds. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Aziraphale in actual color before. It was... It was something new. He was pretty sure he even liked it.

Then he realized Aziraphale was smiling at him, eyes bright and crinkled at the corners, but there was no recognition. Only an amusement, a pleasure. “Stand where you like, my dear. There's an unfortunate amount of space, I'm afraid.”

Crowley had heard him call over a million people “my dear” over the last thousand years, but it had been too long since he'd had it directed his way. His heart seized, ballooned, and he had to clear his throat. “Must be one of his gloomy ones.”

“Oh, I suppose. There's tragedy in it, but love too. It's my second time seeing it, and there are three more people than there were last time. Well, four now that you've arrived.”

Crowley settled at his side, keeping his gaze aimed towards the stage. “Like it, do you?” 

“Very much so.”

They were both distracted by someone making their way over, Aziraphale waving a hand. “Shh! It's him, it's him,” he whispered, and Crowley's heart lurched. One day maybe he'd get that excitement, that recognition. 

“Prithee, gentiles, um, might I request a small favor? Uh.” Shakespeare's hands fluttered as he reached them, as theatrical as the man on stage. “Could you, in your role as the audience, give us more to work with?” 

“You mean like when the ghost of his father came on and I said ‘He's behind you!’” Aziraphale lit up, and Crowley found his lips quirking.[28]

“Just so. That was jolly helpful. Made everyone on stage feel appreciated. A bit more of that.” Shakespeare gestured towards the lone man on stage. “Good Master Burbage, please, speak the lines trippingly.”

The beleaguered actor leaned forward. “I am wasting my time up here.”

“No!” Aziraphale protested. “No, you're very good. I love all the... talking.”

“And what does your friend think?” Burbage demanded, casting his gaze towards the demon.

Crowley's heart did that stupid lurch thing again when Aziraphale looked at him with a blink of bright blue eyes. “More acquaintances at this point, I would think.”

He would, wouldn't he? Crowley watched him eat a grape and turned back to the waiting actor while his lurching heart broke. “I think you should get on with the play.”

“Yes, Burbage, please.” Shakespeare waved a hand dramatically. “From the top!” 

After a moment of hesitation, he continued, “To be or not to be. That is the question.”

“To be! I mean, not to be! Come on, Hamlet!” Aziraphale turned to Crowley as if seeking support or sharing a joke, but he looked so cheerful and sincere. Crowley could only shake his head almost imperceptibly to stop him being humiliating. Aziraphale didn't seem to take this to heart. “Buck up,” he added happily. 

Burbage resumed as if the outburst had never occurred, “Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows-” 

“He's very good, isn't he?” Aziraphale whispered under the soliloquy, apparently not wanting to cause a disturbance. Besides the one he'd already made. 

“Age does not wither, nor custom stale his infinite variety,” Crowley replied loftily. Neither of them noticed Shakespeare writing it down as he scooted away. 

“Do you write, um, er-?” 

“Crowley,” he supplied for the hundredth time, the thousandth. He'd lost track over the millenia. He still wanted to tell him why it was that and not Crawly.

“Crowley. You seem quite good with words.”

Crowley had to circle him again, unable to help himself. He wanted to see him from every angle, add this fleeting encounter to his memory with all the others. He'd written them all down now, but they were for him alone in an ancient leather journal. Maybe one day, given the chance, he'd share them with the angel and see that knowledge in his eyes as he had just before he'd vanished in West Essex. 

“Not a writer. More of a... traveler.”[29]

“Oh? Been to any interesting places?” 

_Everywhere_ , he wanted to say. _We've been everywhere_. “A few. You?” 

“Oh. No. I've spent most of my life in London, actually. But!” He smiled, bright and oblivious to the storm in his companion. “I _am_ going to Edinburgh. I'm leaving in two days. That's why I came here, you see. I wanted to watch _Hamlet_ again because I'm not sure when I'll be back. Nor am I sure that this play will still be performed when I do. It's... not going well. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Crowley absently agreed. Two days to make it a hit. He could probably do that. “Y'know, I have to be in Edinburgh too.”

“Oh?”

“Seeing a clan leader about some cattle.” And that was all he wanted to say about that. No demon talk, no angel talk. He'd be human this time, and see where that got them. Certainly further than West Essex. He couldn't risk another repeat of Rome, but maybe there could be something in between. 

“Going to become a farmer, o weary traveler?” 

“Definitely not. It's a favor to someone. Perhaps...” It was a big risk, the question dangling at the tip of his tongue. But he'd always been a risk taker. “Perhaps we could go together?” 

“Beg pardon?” 

“ _Well_ , you haven't traveled and I have. There are certain dangers in traveling alone, you know. Highwaymen, for a start.” His mind drifted to Eden as it so often did. “Vicious animals, cold.”

Aziraphale stared at him, seconds becoming minutes as those blue eyes twisted Crowley's stomach into knots. “Vicious animals... Have we- So sorry, dear boy, do I know you?” 

_Yes_. “Don't think so. I've seen you around, though.” He named a few of the people Aziraphale associated with in this life and understanding cleared his gaze and unfurrowed his brow. 

“Oh, I see. Perhaps I've seen you around as well. I hope you don't think me rude for not introducing myself.” He gasped. “I haven't now, have I?” 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, tongue tasting every syllable the way the angel might every bite of a dessert. “I've heard it before.”

“Oh. Well, it’s wonderful to finally make your acquaintance.” He laid a hand over his heart, gazing at Crowley for another full minute before his smile returned. “Care for a grape, my dear?” 

\----

While Crowley wondered if he was making the biggest mistake of his life,[30] Aziraphale marveled at the glass windows on his carriage doors. Aziraphale’s only carriage was still little more than a wagon, the boot exposed to the elements, so Crowley had offered the use of his right before miracling it into existence. At the angel’s hesitation, he’d flipped a coin. Naturally, he cheated and his carriage won.

“You know, I don’t know how I feel about all of these new technologies,” Aziraphale hummed, delicate fingertips smudging the windows. “They happen so quickly.”

Crowley’s nose wrinkled. Walking, camels, donkeys, horses - give him a damn carriage over one of those any day. He’d spent thousands of years with those and so had Aziraphale. This development had not happened _quickly_. He blamed the Fourteenth Century, still bitter about it.

“It’s _fine_. There are springs on the undercarriage so the ride isn’t as taxing and I brought the glass straight from Paris-” in a manner of speaking- “so it’s strong enough to handle the bumps in the trails.”

Aziraphale stopped cautiously pressing the windows to turn, eyes bright enough to steal Crowley’s breath. “You’ve been to Paris?”

 _So have you. Before it ever was._ “A time or two.”

“How wonderful! You’ll have to tell me all about it. Was it before the Franco-Savoyard War last year?”

Crowley would barely call that squabbling a proper war, but nodded. There was no use arguing semantics. “Yup.”

“Oh, good. I do loathe all the fighting. I frankly don’t understand a single bit of it.”

“Tyranny, inbreeding, and the consuming power of monarchy does that sort of thing to people,” he replied dryly.

Aziraphale’s brows lifted. “We live under a monarchy, dear boy.”

In Heaven, Hell, and on Earth, Crowley agreed. At least in Britain, which is where Aziraphale had been reincarnated the past few times. It’s likely where he’d continue to be planted. Crowley privately wondered where they put the babies Aziraphale’s corporation replaced, but obviously couldn’t voice that.[31]

“Turn me in for treason then, angel.”

They'd been together nearly a day, Crowley not willing to risk walking away and having Aziraphale forget him now, but he'd refrained from the moniker. He'd been too wary of watching him disappear in a flash of blue light again, but that didn't happen. 

In fact, Aziraphale turned a rather pretty shade of pink. “Gosh.”

Crowley hesitated a moment, then two, then three. It couldn't be Rome. It couldn't be like Rome. “Not going to, I take it?” 

“No.” Aziraphale cleared his throat, then offered his hand. “I should be getting on. I'll see you day after next? Early, mind. We'll want to get a wiggle on.”

“Wot?”

“Early? A bit after dawn. Enough time for breakfast.”

He'd heard that; it was the _wiggle on_. But Aziraphale's hand started to fall, so Crowley quickly caught it. He held on rather than giving it the shake Aziraphale had expected, taking a chance in feeling that soft hand in his. These were not times for soft hands, so he took in that evidence of angeldom and finally shook. “I know your address. I’ll pick you up.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, rubbing his hand once he had it back. He sent Crowley a small, shy smile. “That would be lovely. Mind how you go, Crowley.” Beaming, he turned to make his way down London’s crowded streets and Crowley hoped more than anything that Aziraphale would remember him in two days.

\----

Their driver wasn’t... _quite_ human. He could respond when spoken to, handle the reins, and care for horses. He could not hold independent thought, run away, or - most importantly - die and reveal that they were together to Heaven or to Hell. He didn’t have a soul. Calling him a _he_ was probably an overstatement, really, but that’s what he’d fashioned the Golem into because, well, a feminine driver would be a very big problem for them. So were the times they lived in, but he hoped some of the inexplicable sexism in the world would fade soon enough.[32]

In any case, the Golem would last them the eight days it would take to get to Edinburgh. Eight days in a carriage or an inn with Aziraphale. He really should’ve thought out his invitation better before delivering it. He was only going to put himself through torture, but he’d already sorted himself out. Nothing on him that could exhibit arousal. Perfect.

Awful.

Sighing, he rapped on the door and arched his brows when a young maid opened it. He’d almost forgotten about Aziraphale’s family in this life. They were in the pocket of the Church of England, a bizarre thing he would’ve thought Heaven would have more objections to. Apparently, they had more to deal with than one king beheading several wives. He’d tossed his own commendation for that in the pile with the other things that had nothing to do with him.

“Mr. Crowley for Mr. Fell. Aziraphale,” he clarified, just in case she tried to pass him one to one of the other tossers who lived in the home. Every family, he’d noticed, had been named Fell and Crowley wondered if that was some sick joke on Heaven’s part.[33]

As he waited, he folded his arms, unfolded them, spun in a lazy circle to look around the foyer, spun in a second because he could, and paused midway through a third when he saw Aziraphale. Sparkling, shining, beaming, blue eyes filled with _recognition_. “Hullo, Crowley!” he greeted. “Terribly sorry to keep you waiting, my dear. I was just finishing breakfast. Have you eaten?”

“Ngk,” was his first attempt. “Yes,” was his second and a lie. He generally didn’t care to eat. Not before Rome and certainly not after, not unless an angel was across from him offering recommendations and delicately dabbing crumbs or sauce away from his lips. Oysters were considered an aphrodisiac and he was more than willing to lay that blame solely at his own feet. His arousal had blasted through that entire restaurant in an unconscious temptation that hadn’t been seen since.[34]

Though Crowley's mind wasn’t only on Rome, drifting all the way back to Eden. Nearly six thousand years now since Aziraphale had known him. Oh, he still didn’t, not really. He knew him as a slightly unusual man who was willing - who had _offered_ \- to escort him to Edinburgh, not as a demon. But to see pleasure and recognition of any depth... He waited five seconds before he let his shoulders relax. No blue cracks appeared around his form. He was still there, still giving him that slightly puzzled smile. Puzzled? Shit.

“Wot?”

The puzzled nature of the smile turned indulgent. “Honestly, one would think you were still asleep. I said I’m prepared to go. I have a cloak in all of this, er, somewhere.”

“I have a spare if we don’t locate it before dark,” Crowley decided, ready to let the servants gather Aziraphale’s things before realizing that Aziraphale was going to get them himself. The angelic strength displayed so easily as he and Crowley hefted and strapped the full trunks to the roof of the carriage soothed even as it worried. He still didn’t know the exact rules to all this. In West Essex, everything had happened so quickly. Aziraphale had seemed tired, a little lost, like someone struggling to believe they were really on the side of good.

Now, he was so vibrant. As happy as he’d been in Rome - _stop thinking about Rome_ \- and so content with this time in history. Crowley didn’t understand it. The lives he’d watched since West Essex had ended in such sporadic ways. He was never _killed_ by anything, no. He didn’t get sick, he didn’t get wounded, yet discorporation came. Most of the time, he just quietly plodded along growing older and older until he would go to sleep one night and not wake up. As if he just _expected_ to die a human death, so did. The other two times, Crowley had seen that spark, that _knowledge_ in Aziraphale’s eyes before he vanished, and both times had involved him in some way.

Once, the closest life, had been with the onset of the Church of England. From the shadows, a coil of tense scales, Crowley had watched Aziraphale hesitate over a transcription of the Bible. “Now, that isn’t what he said. Crowley would never have told Eve she would be like the Almighty. That’s ridic-” He’d stopped, frozen, then had stood so quickly and suddenly, the chair he’d been sitting in had clattered to the ground. He’d looked panicked and ready to run and then he’d just been _gone_. 

Before that, it had been with the invention of the printing press in 1440. There had been other such things available in Asia long before that German goldsmith began a Printing Revolution. And Aziraphale had been beside himself with wiggling, giddy excitement. His eyes had _sparkled_ and his cheeks had turned that bright pink shade, and then he’d opened his mouth and had said to absolutely no one, “Oh, I can hardly _wait_ to tell Crowley. He’ll claim he doesn’t read, but I know better. He’ll adore this. So much knowledge can be spread so easily now. He'll be _delighted_.”

The humans around him hadn’t noticed when the sparkle died and the color paled, but Crowley had. He’d made it two steps out of the shadows[35] to drag him close and probably do something stupid, but he’d been gone again. Discorporated again, stolen away again.

So it seemed... random. As much as Crowley detested the word, it was the only one which seemed to fit. Aziraphale’s memory, and so his discorporations, were random. He didn’t know what would trigger one in this life, entirely uncertain of his footing but reckless enough to keep sauntering along anyway. 

Or riding along, as the case was. His carriage was more comfortable and shock-absorbent than anything currently available to humans because he expected the springs to be a little bouncier and the horses drawing them to trot smoothly and the Golem to know to avoid the worst potholes of dirt roads. The cushions were plumper because he expected them to be, and the windows were crystal clear except where Aziraphale would smudge his fingerprints over the surfaces when he touched them in wonder. Crowley didn’t mind the smudges anymore than he did having him across the bench, gaze out the window as the city gave way to the countryside.

There was a book in his lap, a smile gracing his lips, and he was just... beautiful. Entirely, irrefutably, incomparably beautiful. Crowley had eight days of this torture ahead of him. 

It was so much worse than Rome. 

\----

Such a peculiar man. Peculiar in the ways of “unusual” or “special,” though Aziraphale was doing his best to ignore the thought of special. It wouldn't do to think of him that way. It would be distracting and highly inappropriate, considering that they'd only just met. 

Even though something in him said he'd known this man before. Something in him trusted this man like he'd trusted no one else in his life. Something in him felt so much more _right_ riding along in this carriage with Crowley than he'd ever felt with anyone else before. And he was nearly forty, practically an old man. He should be married by now, continuing on the family name like the others.[36]

Though just the _idea_ of doing any such things twisted his stomach and always had. The ladies brought to him for courting were... pleasant? But there had never been a stir to be more than acquaintances with any of them. Never a stir to be more with anyone, man or woman, actually. With Crowley, there was not only a stir, but a sensation of already _being_ more. So much more. It made him _so_ nervous. It made him _so_ happy. 

As they bounced along, one day becoming two, being in Crowley's company made him nearly radiant. They seemed to be able to discuss anything and everything. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he believed the tales of Paris and Spain Crowley had to share, but he was so terribly descriptive, so wonderfully intriguing. He would have to be very wealthy to hold court with the people he claimed to have met in his travels, but then he _was_ very clean and well-dressed, well-spoken, well-read. The carriage alone was shockingly decadent. He'd always thought traveling would be terribly uncomfortable, but even after two full days of bumpy roads, he felt more like he'd gone to bed on downy feathers and not tucked on a narrow seat. 

And yet no fancy jewels adorned Crowley’s collar, not now that they were traveling or before, and no rings graced his fingers. Aziraphale, though, was the same, he supposed. He only had the golden ring on his pinky, something he couldn't recall receiving yet seemed to have always had. Thinking too hard on that always made him feel a bit muddled and hazy, so best not to speculate. 

“Tell me, Crowley,” he began, fiddling with the buttons of his cream-colored coat, “if you want to, that is. I don't wish to presume anything or make you uncomfortable or-” 

“Ask,” he interrupted.

Aziraphale sat up a little straighter, which was quite a feat as he'd already been poised quite appropriately. Crowley didn't seem to have a care in the world for etiquette, his traveling boots propped onto the cushion beside Aziraphale, his slouch on the opposing bench permanent. He did look terribly comfortable and perfectly tempting, but it only spurred Aziraphale to be more proper somehow. “How is it that you are still, ah, unaccompanied? That is-” 

“Why am I still single?” he asked, interrupting again. It was so incredibly rude, but Aziraphale would've felt... cheated, somehow, if he weren't. If he were less himself. He nodded, and Crowley sighed. “It's... complicated.”

“Well, what does your family think?” 

He smiled, something small and secret. “I wouldn't call the things I come from _family_ , angel.”

There it was. _Angel_. It made something in Aziraphale shine, his heart both swelling happily and squeezing tightly. It was the sort of baffling emotional dance that seemed to be quite normal when in Crowley's presence. He didn’t comment on it. “You’re evading the question.”

“I don’t think so.” When Aziraphale only continued to give him a pointed, lingering look, he let his shoulders move restlessly. “Listen, I don’t _have_ family.”

The pointed look melted, Aziraphale’s shoulders falling in sympathy. “Oh, my dear-”

“No, no. Stop. It’s not-” He cut himself off with a hiss, gaze shooting out the window. 

Aziraphale’s hands fluttered for a moment, but he resisted the desire to reach out and instead folded them in his lap. He’d grown used to these pauses when asking Crowley questions. He didn’t doubt the truth in the responses he gave, but knew details were missing. He would never begrudge him his secrets, no, particularly when every word seemed so hard for him to say, but he wished... He wished Crowley could find peace. “I’m sorry, dear fellow. You needn’t tell me.”

“If you want to know, I was abandoned.” Crowley still didn’t look at him, sunglasses covering his eyes as he stared out into the fading sunlight. “Not entirely unwarranted,” he added, almost more to himself than to Aziraphale. “I didn’t follow the rules to the letter, didn’t particularly want to if I’m being honest, and I got mixed up in a bad crowd. Suddenly, I’m cast out and I found out - pretty quick, too - that the people I’d been hanging ‘round weren’t any better. So now I do my own thing.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed. That felt entirely true. Still no details, no specifics, but Aziraphale found he didn’t need them. He understood. “You can’t go back to your family?”

“No, and I don’t want to. I like the freedom being on the other side gave me. Except...” Crowley turned his head towards him and, though he couldn’t see his eyes, he could feel a sudden grief waft through the air that was almost tangible enough to touch.

Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, though he didn’t know why. “Except?” he prompted.

Crowley fell quiet again, just looking at him. It almost felt as though he was looking _through_ him, and Aziraphale held his breath until he spoke. “Someone’s part of that world,” he murmured, “and I would give everything to rescue them from it.”

“They-” Aziraphale had to clear his throat. “They must mean a great deal to you.”

“You don’t know the half of it, angel.”

For some reason, Aziraphale thought he did. For some reason, Aziraphale wanted to bundle him up and whisper apologies and promises that it wouldn’t always be like this. _Be not afraid._ “If you could... if you could speak to them, what would you say?”

Crowley didn’t seem to need a pause this time. “That I know this isn’t their fault. That I don’t understand it, but I know it isn’t what they want. That if they could give me... give me _any_ sign of how I can save them, I would do it.”

“Are they... in danger?”

“No,” he sighed after a moment. “No, I wouldn’t call it _danger_. Makes it sound more exciting than it is.” And Aziraphale could hear some disappointment in that, as if he’d be very happy to rescue this person from actual danger over and over again. Like a dashing knight, something in him too easily able to picture Crowley in shining silver armor. No, no. Black. Like a raven’s wing, or the night sky.

He shook his head of the image, however tantalizing, however quietly familiar, and offered a soft smile. “What would you call it?”

“An endless, hopeless cycle.”

Aziraphale didn’t know why he reached out, why he closed that small gap and found one of Crowley’s hands in both of his, but it felt important. Even when he realized what he was doing, when his heart skipped too many beats and color rose to his face, he held on. “I would have faith in you. I do,” he whispered, something welling inside him. Something unlocking in his mind, like a key being turned.

Crowley slammed the door before it could open. “What books do you have?” he demanded gruffly, making Aziraphale blink at him. Once then twice, that something fading back to the edges of his mind as he sat back and rummaged through the small trunk that held his favorite things. 

“Oh, I have several! Tell me, my dear, do you like poetry?”

\----

It wasn’t in a demon’s job description, feeling bad. _Doing_ and _being_ bad, yes, but feeling it? Oh, no. Wickedness should be treasured, evil revered, and all things bad were good.

Crowley was a wretched demon.

He took too many chances on that carriage ride to Edinburgh. He lingered too long with him when they stopped at inns along the way, looked too closely at him when he ate and tucked into things himself only because Aziraphale insisted. He thought of Rome too many times to count and was slowly losing his mind from the want of it. His body was one wrong thought away from betraying him, an Effort being made with or without his permission. It was just the way of it sometimes, when their own wants outweighed their sense.

But he had to be _careful_. The first near-discorporation had given way to others. He couldn’t resist, though it was probably an awful thing to do. Hence the whole feeling bad thing. He just wanted to know that there was a way to turn it off, to distract Aziraphale from remembering his angeldom so that he would stay. So sometimes, he’d go off on odd tangents and Aziraphale would fire back and start to look holier-than-thou, and then he would say something - “Nero was _not_ supposed to use his violin as a- a- a _soundtrack_ to evil, and you know it, you foul fiend!”[37] \- and then he’d start to panic and Crowley would veer somewhere else. The sky through the window, an inane question about animals, he’d let the Golem hit a pothole and rattle them inside - anything to distract Aziraphale’s mind to watch it reset and have him back to nothing more than an apparent human. 

The fact that he could do it, could push him to the edge and safely bring him back, was as thrilling as it was shameful. He tried not to do it too often on their journey even while telling himself the experimentation was good. If they could figure out some happy medium here, things would be grand. But it was taxing, he could tell. Aziraphale slept longer when he did it, and that only added to the whole feeling bad thing. He shouldn’t be mentally exhausting him like this, shouldn’t be exhausting _himself_ either, but he couldn’t help it. He had to know, had to figure this thing out. What was it Heaven had tied to him? What was the exact trigger? If he could find it, they could probably figure out some way to work around it.

Aziraphale had faith in him. He hadn’t known what he’d been saying, not really, but Crowley had felt that brush of an angelic soul against his and had _known_ the words came from a deeper place than human knowledge. If only he could live up to that faith.

“Fucking idiot,” he muttered under his breath.

“What was that, my dear?”

Crowley looked down the hall, staring at him for a few seconds. It was the last morning of their journey, breakfast behind them, and the road ahead once they left the inn. He swallowed as the morning light streamed through the glassless windows, catching on Aziraphale’s hair like a halo. Oh, demons weren’t supposed to feel bad and, if only in this, Crowley wished he could be a little bit of a better one. He wanted to cause an accident on the way. Break a wheel, send the Golem off on a lumbering journey to get someone to fix it, huddle with him another day or two or three or-

He blew out a slow, unsteady breath. “Casually insulting myself.”

“Oh, you silly serpent.”

“Wot.” Aziraphale stopped, gazing at him and Crowley watched in horror as he seemed to reset his own brain. _No_. No, no, he wasn’t supposed to be teaching him that. “Angel-”

“It’s the- the mark. On your temple? It is a serpent, isn’t it? I didn’t want to ask, but-”

“Yesss.” Crowley took several steps closer, pulled in by the horrible thought that he was somehow stunting Aziraphale. He’d gone too far. “It’s a snake, yeah.”

“It’s very unusual, but it’s so like you. I think it’s quite charm-”

He squeaked. He honestly squeaked when Crowley grabbed him. It wasn’t Rome. Rome had been a hot and heavy blow, but this was just as intense. It was like electricity, crackling at every point of contact when Crowley hauled him close.

Aziraphale didn’t have a chance to do anything more than squeak when his lips were otherwise occupied. A hand stole into long, luscious locks and he kissed back eagerly. He kissed like he’d been around when kissing had been invented and was now determined to perfect it. Tongue and lips and teeth and a delicious roll of the hips that ruined any control Crowley might’ve been lording over his own corporation.

He responded to Crowley’s desperation with his own until something kicked in and reminded him that humans breathed. He broke the kiss with a gasp for air, and Crowley-

Crowley let him go. “The carriage is yours.”

“What?”

“Go to Edinburgh. Driver’ll take you.”

“Wait-”

He backed up, retreating quickly and evading Aziraphale’s outstretched hands. “No. I _knew_ this was a bloody mistake.”

“I- I don’t understand, Crowley, what- No, _please_ , please, wait.”

He couldn’t. It was stupid to think, stupid to hope for even a _moment_ , that he could figure this out. He’d never understood Her, obviously, or he didn’t think he would be a demon. He didn’t understand why Aziraphale was in a loop instead of just bloody Falling, but trying to find a gap in that loop was obviously a mistake. A selfish, stupid mistake borne out of just wanting to be close. He wouldn’t do that to an angel, not _this_ angel.

Crowley strode through the inn’s little restaurant, a deliberate choice, as he knew eyes turned to him and he knew they’d turn to Aziraphale too. But where Crowley didn’t care, Aziraphale paused. It gave him enough time to get outside and disappear into the grass like the snake he was. He swore this time to keep his distance. He’d watch Aziraphale’s lives just in case they set him on some stupid assignment he couldn’t complete on his own, but he had to stop poking about in them. 

He wouldn’t let him Fall. He _wouldn’t_.

Yet he left him confused and hurt, standing on the inn’s porch and searching for someone who couldn’t possibly have vanished so easily. It wasn’t possible, was it? Aziraphale’s mind whirled too fast for comfort and didn’t stop all the way to Edinburgh, all the way through the blessings he wasn’t aware he was passing. A minor miracle.

A miracle. Kissing Crowley had felt like a miracle and he had the sudden sense that he wouldn’t see him again in this lifetime.

Perhaps that was why, a week later, Aziraphale was gone from Earth. He didn’t get a chance to see Hamlet at the height of its popularity, but Crowley sat through the whole gloomy thing with a small bunch of grapes in the seat to his right.

An increasingly frustrated angel watched from above.

* * *

* * *

### Footnotes

25. Dolphins. Tha’s mah point.↩

26. He’s not a stalker. He’s not a stalker. He’s not a stalker. He’s not...↩

27. Aziraphale tended to get quite a few letters signed by a man named A. Gabriel. He did not know that the A stood for Archangel, but he did know they always came on very official parchment and he wondered just how this Mr. Gabriel always seemed to know where he was. He paid quite handsomely, though, and Aziraphale was always prepared to follow the often strange and vague orders for some coin. None of them seemed altogether wicked, after all. Additionally, he liked his food, his fine clothes, and certainly his wine a bit too much to refuse.↩

28. If you don’t also smile every time this scene comes on in episode 3, you are a sterner person than I.↩

29. He’d been having some fun as a highwayman here and there, actually, but wouldn’t have told Aziraphale that even if the angel had his memories. ↩

30. He could think of quite a few monumental ones if pressed, but this one could lose him Aziraphale and his dramatic sensibilities gave that top billing. ↩

31. Honestly, he could've followed them all to find out, but who wanted too? Heaven probably ensured they were all put up for adoption or, worse, raised by monks or nuns. Gross. ↩

32. If you didn’t sigh reading that, I don’t know what to tell you.↩

33. Gabriel and Sandalphon are not clever enough for jokes that deep. Michael and Uriel, however...↩

34. Which was technically true as the same wave had been spread with the creation of a chocolate drink in Mesoamerican back around 1900 B.C. Aziraphale’s first taste had elicited such a decadent moan that he - already so out of place with his blond curls and pale skin - had nearly been declared a lustful god. Rather, he’d been dubbed the child of a lustful god and had spent the rest of that lifetime quite confused and put off by it all. Crowley didn’t know all the specifics, though, as he’d heard that moan and had never gone back. Coward.

However, had Crowley been around the first time Aziraphale had tasted crêpes, this would be a complete lie.↩

35. Where he’d been playing it cool, obviously. The printing press wasn’t anything to get excited over, no sir.↩

36. He'd never been comfortable referring to his siblings as such, though couldn't imagine why. ↩

37. Crowley’s thing about Rome was bordering on an obsession, really. Not healthy, but having your hereditary enemy push you against a door and kiss you senseless was very hard to get out of one’s head. He was tempted to try it sometime.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at [SylWritesStuff](https://sylwritesstuff.tumblr.com/)!


	4. Knee Socks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A peckish angel has dreams. Goals, even! Crowley doesn't know what to do about this, so maybe he's a little reckless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! My darling beta, [SkimmingTheSurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/works), is amenable to twice a week uploads so get ready for a Saturday and Wednesday schedule! For anyone also reading our [Divine Restorations & Repairs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24690658/chapters/59671660) fic, this won't have any impact on that.
> 
> This chapter song is [Knee Socks](https://open.spotify.com/track/2LGdO5MtFdyphi2EihANZG?si=p87VnlsxTt2UlzK_qK2hsw) by Arctic Monkeys. Pray for one demon.
> 
> Anyway, time for Paris!

_Until we find out who was born this time around,  
_ _it seems irrelevant to seek earlier identities.  
_ _I have heard many people speak of who they believe they were in previous incarnations,  
_ _but they seem to have very little idea of who they are in this one..._

― Stephen Levine

* * *

**_1793  
_** **_Paris_ **

Crowley kept his promise - or self-imposed torturous contract - for nearly two hundred years. He watched Aziraphale from a safe distance, never daring to come as close as he had in 1601. It was better that way.[38] It was safer.[39] It was miserable.[40] But at least Upstairs seemed to be as disinterested in the overall affairs of the planet as Downstairs. As the world continued its rotation, orders came in less and less frequently. Aziraphale’s lives were usually in their forties before they’d remember him nowadays, so Crowley didn’t tend to watch before then. It was... disconcerting to see him much younger than that, anyway. 

He knew it was disconcerting for the parents too since, even as a child, Aziraphale was too clever for his own good. He tended to pick up books before any typical child should be able to read but, well, no one ever told Aziraphale he _shouldn’t_ be able to read before the age of four. By the time his lives, er, ended, he always had quite the collection. 

Crowley had them all now.

Though it was humiliating to even think about, he had every book and every scroll Aziraphale had ever owned going back to Rome.[41] If he ended up with duplicates, Crowley kept the oldest copy and took the other to some school where students could learn from it. It was the only thing he could think to do with them, really. He didn’t even know _why_ he kept them.

Except for the autographed ones. He knew why he kept those. He liked to trace Aziraphale’s name in the inscriptions, liked to have proof that the angel had walked the globe just as long as he himself had. That he was making an impact, even if it wasn’t the one he still wrote about in his compliance reports to Head Office. He almost envied Aziraphale that much. At least he didn’t have to write those.[42]

Every page was tucked in an inconspicuous black bag[43] that he got used to carrying around. Sometimes it was small enough to be tucked into a pocket and others, it was the size and shape of a traveling trunk as having _luggage_ grew increasingly normal. It was proving to be both more and less difficult to hide amongst humans as their population grew, and he felt an equally confused amount of fondness and distaste for it. His sunglasses were bigger now, covering his serpentine eyes more completely than past styles. The whole witch burning thing[44] had really put a damper on his ability to pass the golden things off as _normal_. Besides, he liked to accessorize in his small way. Sunglasses were fashionable and, if he had his way,[45] they always would be.

As he walked through Paris, trying not to step in any bloody pools of aristocrats or think too deeply on the commendation he’d received for all this mess, he considered himself very fashionable. At least for a revolution. He could only imagine the look Aziraphale might give him if he saw the ensemble, letting himself smile instead of frown at the thought. He was only twenty, oh, six? years into his current life span, blond and lovely and a little less well-to-do than most of his past lives had been. Apparently, Heaven wanted to rein him in a bit, keep him in Europe. Probably a good time for it, considering all the constant unrest and all the wars. They had both spent his past one in the colonies, Aziraphale’s compassion for the natives nearly getting him discorporated. Ridiculous angel, he thought fondly, choosing not to be upset over the fact that his discorporation had instead come at an errant thought over a disturbing flier in 1741. A sermon, Crowley remembered. Something about sinners being in the hands of an angry God.

“An angry God,” he’d muttered unhappily. “In these times? This is certainly no Mesopotamia.” The blue light had almost been instantaneous, but Crowley had expected it.

It was more shocking that he’d been “reborn” by 1767, really. His absences usually lasted fifty years at least. Crowley tended to nap through part of them, not willing to live in a world dimmed by the loss of an angel yet less willing to completely abandon it. His corporation had been too young to be involved in the little uprising by the colonies, though Crowley had watched with great fascination. Why these new Americans thought they were any different from the country they’d left behind was beyond him, but the go at democracy was intriguing. They’d see how it played out.

Though the fact that they weren’t helping France during their own revolution was not the best starting point for them. Not the best foot forward at all, really, but he couldn’t entirely blame them for being tired of bloodshed. He didn’t look up as he walked through an open square, weaving his way through the gathered crowd, but he heard the gasps and the hideous sound of a sharp knife slicing through a slender throat. It was like the annual safety seminars in Hell, but...

Crowley stopped. There was something holy in Paris. He lifted his gaze to the high windows of the Bastille, heart freezing in his chest for only a moment before he was bustling his way through the crowd. As he rushed, the lines and wrinkles faded and his visual age lowered to match Aziraphale's. Several demonic miracles got him through the heavy doors and the gates, an escape plan forming in his mind already. One that would be believable for a human. 

He froze again when he heard that familiar voice, unsure if he should be furious or thrilled with him when he heard simple annoyance and not a bit of fear. Oh, his angel. His stuffy, fussy, spectacular angel. 

Frilly, he added when he reached the bars and saw him. Pretty. For Satan's sake, what was he doing looking frilly and pretty in the middle of a revolution in France? 

“Look, this is all a terrible mistake,” he said to his would-be executioner. “I-I don't think you understand-” 

“I have good news for you. You are the nine hundred ninety-ninth aristo to die at the guillotine by my hand.” It was clearly not the good news Aziraphale had expected, lips pressing together. “But the first English,” the Frenchman added, and Aziraphale tipped his head, smile placating at best. 

Sassy bastard, Crowley thought fondly, watching the executioner walk around and start to reach for his collar. 

“Now...”

He barely touched him and Aziraphale was off the stool, chains around his wrist jangling. “ _Please,_ ” he began, but it sounded too huffy to be a true beg. “ _No_. Dreadful mistake, killing me. I'm hardly an aristocratic threat to- to whatever it is that's happening here.”

There was another fall of the guillotine outside, the executioner turning to look out the window and listen to the cheering crowd, and Crowley snapped under the sound of their jeers. Down the hall, chains rattled and grabbed the attention of two guards as well as the Frenchman in Aziraphale's cell. “I'll be back in just a moment, monsieur. We'll take care of you shortly,” he promised and scurried out, not noticing the demon lurking in the shadows even when he slipped into the cell. 

Aziraphale had his back to the door, huffing under his breath. “Animals.”

“Animals don't kill each other with clever machines, angel. Only humans do that.”

He spun with a gasp, thrilled to hear a British-sounding voice. But the delight dropped almost immediately as he took in Crowley's outfit, the rusty red of his coat and the plain black of all the rest, the tight curls in his hair. The judgmental fussy up and down of his gaze was almost more than Crowley's heart could bear. “Oh... Good Lord.”

Crowley smiled. He had to. It was exactly the annoyance he'd imagined, hoped for. “What the deuce are you doing locked up in the Bastille?” 

Aziraphale swayed, chains jingling just a little as he cast his gaze towards the small window. Then he looked back at Crowley with a pout. “I don't know.”

“You don't know.” Crowley almost couldn't believe it. But surely Heaven wouldn't have sent him into a revolution as deadly as all this? Wearing _that_. Pearly fabric and lace, all creamy and white despite the grimy floors of the prison. The buckles on his shoes _sparkled_. “What are you even doing in France?”

Sighing heavily, he turned away and sat down on the stool again. He should be terrified, really, but he looked put out and terribly disappointed. “I got peckish.”

“'Peckish.'”

Aziraphale looked up at him through his lashes. “Well, if you must know, it was the crêpes. You can't find decent ones anywhere but Paris.” His head tipped a bit, as if he was perfectly accepting of this absurd reason to come to Paris in the midst of a war. “And the brioche.”

Crowley crossed to him, sharp and a little annoyed. To Aziraphale's credit, he didn't so much as flinch. “So you just popped across the Channel during a revolution because you wanted something to nibble? Dressed like that?” 

“I have standards!” Affronted, Aziraphale pouted at him anew. “I'd heard they were getting a bit carried away over here, but-” 

“Yeah, this is not getting carried away. This is cutting off lots of people's heads very efficiently with a big head-cutting machine.”

“I believe it's called a guillotine.”

“Excuse me for not giving a damn what they call their murder machines.”

He grabbed the chain connecting Aziraphale's handcuffs to the wall, making him blink. “What are you doing?” 

“We're leaving. Before the guards show back up.” They'd be busy with the Golem he'd miracled in a cell a few minutes more, but it wouldn't last forever. 

“Oh. Well. Ah.”

Crowley looked up, brows arching over his sunglasses. “What?” 

“I'm a bit-” He lifted his wrists. “And who even are you, for that matter?” 

“Crowley. And if you just tuck your thumbs in, they'll slip right off.”

“Will they?” 

He had no idea if they would for a human, but an angel and a demon? “Course.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale positioned his hands how Crowley directed and gasped when a tug from Crowley had them slipping right off. “Well! How about that,” he marvelled, rubbing his freed wrists. “Thank you. Those were rather uncomfortable. Why are you doing this?” There was a pause, Crowley not having thought things out _that_ far, but Aziraphale's fondness for espionage and a good story had him jumping to conclusions anyway. “Do you work for the crown?” he whispered, eyes bright with curious hope. “You know, _secretively_?”

He was the single most precious thing in all of creation, but that was a very dangerous thought to have. “Yes. Keeping, ah, the English uninvolved. Last thing we need is for us to get muddied up in French squabbles.”

“For once,” he replied, amused and standing when Crowley encouraged it. “So you just... watch the Bastille? Why not watch the boats?” 

That answered where he'd been grabbed. “The boats to France aren't running.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale's brows drew together as he followed Crowley out of the cell, the demon grateful he didn't think to ask why it hadn't been locked behind the executioner. Nor did he think to ask how Crowley had made it inside to begin with. The angel tucked inside either knew - a thought which made Crowley's heart flutter - or the human shell was that dense. 

He decided to believe in the angel. “How odd,” Aziraphale continued. “The one I boarded seemed quite normal.”

 _That_ was most certainly angelic influence, though Crowley couldn't recall the last time he'd seen Aziraphale _use_ his angelic expectations. He was usually disappointed by things not going his way, not subtly (or overtly) changing them the way Crowley did. They weren't real miracles, per say, just a bending of reality to suit their occult[46] needs. “Really had no idea any of this was happening, did you?” he asked, quietly annoyed. If Heaven would just let him live how he ought to be, Crowley doubted he would've been caught in such a predicament. An angel in prison, of all places. 

Aziraphale's cheeks pinkened. “Obviously not. Oh,” he suddenly sighed, sounding quite bereft. “I suppose this means I won't get those crêpes.”

Crowley didn't respond right away, caught at a crossroads. What he _should_ do was bundle Aziraphale back onto a boat and ship him back to England. No crêpes, no brioche, no additional time spent together. That was obviously what he should be doing, but his heart skipped a beat when he felt fingers on the cuff of his jacket. “Must you walk so quickly? I wasn't aware this was a race.”

“We are escaping from _prison_.” Crowley sent him a disbelieving look that faded at the impish smile he was met with. 

“Just seeing if you were paying attention, dear boy. I asked how we were going to navigate the crowds. My French is, ah, a touch rusty.”

“It's shit.”

Aziraphale drew himself up, every bit the puffy aristocrat. “I beg your pardon.”

It always had been. He could pick up other languages with ease, but never French. The one and only time he'd ever been “born” in France, it had been something of a disaster. Heaven had sent him off to England very quickly and he hadn't come back. It was one of his favorite places to be, though, so Crowley wondered if it was just that he loved it too much to focus. As if he'd rather be eating or admiring than talking. Those bright eyes could convey so much gratitude and joy, more than any wretched attempts at language. 

“Don't argue for once, angel. You know I'm right.”

“'For once?'” he echoed, incredulous. “I'll have you know, I'm very agreeable.”

“All I've heard you do so far is argue.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “I suppose I should have allowed the murderous Frenchman to have his way, hm?”

Crowley could hardly imagine the fallout of letting a group of humans discorporate an angel. This wasn't a war in the name of God, but a revolution of the people. An overthrowing of a monarchy. Every person who cheered would earn a one-way ticket straight to the worst of Hell's torments. “I'll take you back up,” he threatened lightly.[47]

“You'll do no such thing.” As sure as Aziraphale sounded, the grip on Crowley’s sleeve tightened as they wound their way through the Bastille. The demon didn't know if he was going the right way, necessarily, but the floorplan reworked its pathways for him. It would confuse the guards for weeks, but he was hardly worried. Until, “Crowley? Are we headed out into... all that, ah, terribleness in the courtyard?”

The floorplan promptly agreed to rearrange itself. “We’re heading out the back way,” he assured him. “Just trust me, angel.”

“I’m not sure I should trust a rogue who’s able to sneak in and out of prisons with such apparent ease. You don’t even know my name, and you seemed to think there was something _wrong_ with the way I’m dressed yet have offered no helpful solutions on that front and-”

“Hang on, a _rogue_?”

“Well, whatever you wish to call yourself.”

Crowley grinned. Maybe Heaven didn’t bother with Aziraphale before his forties because he was too testy as of late. Though he tended to be overly polite in every other setting Crowley had seen him in, this was new. Either getting arrested just amped up the attitude or he just felt comfortable enough with him to be tetchy about the whole situation.

“I have a bag just outside,” which was a lie as it was in his coat pocket. “There’ll be a good coat for you to cover up in,” which was true as one appeared as he spoke.

“And then what?”

That was an excellent question. He should’ve gotten him to a boat, but... He'd been so _disappointed_. “Why did you come here just for some crêpes, angel?”

“Well, it’s... hm. It’s a touch personal, if you don't mind.”

He minded. “I’m getting you out of a beheading. I think I’ve earned something personal.”

But he didn’t ask again and Aziraphale didn’t offer anything further until they were outside and Crowley could pretend to reach behind a stone when retrieving and enlarging the bag. He pulled it open and plucked out a long, burnt red coat while his frilled companion kept himself hidden in the shadows of the building. Crowley slung the red cloak over his shoulders with a smug feeling of ownership, stilling when blue eyes met his. They were the same. They had always, always, _always_ been the same, and he was utterly hopeless against them and the touch of unhappiness buried under all the offense. 

“The inn I’m staying at makes crêpes. They’ll bring them to the room.” Nearby, an inn Crowley had not, in fact, been staying at helpfully added a kitchen with crêpe supplies and a chef who knew how to use them. It was full of people who had lost homes to the revolution and those fighting in it, so a room right above the kitchen with a back entrance also formed for them.

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up with his smile, twinkling like diamonds. “Oh, really?”

He already regretted the decision. “Yeah. Come on, angel.”

Aziraphale didn’t cling to his sleeve as they made their way through Paris’s crowded, dangerous streets, but Crowley found himself walking too close anyway. He kept a hand at the small of Aziraphale’s back, letting some of his own demonic energies loose to ensure people kept their distance and their attention averted from white stockings or pretty buckled shoes or the frills at Aziraphale's wrists and peeking out from his collar. And he should’ve given him a hat or something to cover up those mussed blond curls. He looked like some rich tart attempting to blend in and failing miserably and, well, he _was_. Well, probably not the tart bit. He was still a bloody angel.

The British crown should be glad he _wasn’t_ working for them, he thought sourly, nudging Aziraphale around back when they reached the inn he’d picked. He went without complaint, head swiveling this way and that like a tourist, and Crowley was entangled in the most uncomfortable mixture of pleasure and frustration over just how ridiculous he was. More light, unconcerned angel than weighted, worried human. He didn’t quite know how to handle the juxtaposition, how to take care of him like a human and not as an angel. No outward miracles, which is why he pulled a key out of his pocket instead of just opening the door, yet he’d been surrounding Aziraphale in soft miracles since he’d first sensed him.

No outright Heaven and Hell discussions, but he’d been calling him angel since the first sentence out of his own stupid mouth.

Why, he wondered, could he not have just a little bit of self-control? Just once. He didn’t even need a lot. Just enough to keep from putting his hands on Aziraphale again. But then the door closed behind him and that red coat slipped off his shoulders, hung up on a coat rack Crowley wouldn’t have thought of but an angel would certainly expect. He could feel the subtle divinity as he scanned the room, watching a few more odds and ends pop into place - an armoire, a bedside table, a plush looking bench seat at the end of the bed, an armchair by the window with a dainty little table.

It hadn’t happened in 1601. Everything had been as it was, the Heavenly miracles tucked away. They spilled freely now, though, and he seemed entirely unaware. He just hung up the coat and turned to look at Crowley, head tipped just so, brows arched expectantly, and so fucking beautiful Crowley’s mouth went dry. Creams and whites and gold filigree and lace and cherry red lips and eyes bluer than the serene pools of Eden had ever been.[48]

Never mind, he needed a lot of self-control. He needed all of it, to hoard it like a dragon did gold. Desperate hands fell into his pockets, curled into fists, trembled with need. Aziraphale might’ve been a voice of reason had he been in possession of all of his faculties, so he had to remember that. He had to remember not to let him Fall.

He watched Aziraphale’s lips curve and almost reached out. _Shit, shit, shit-_ “That wasn’t so bad, I think. I thought those sunglasses of yours would cause suspicion, but I don’t believe anyone looked twice at us.”

“It’s a bright, sunny day. Sunglasses are in.”

“If you say so, dear fellow.” Clearly amused, Aziraphale strolled across the room to the table Crowley had actually thought to add. Crêpes in bed would probably not be a wise choice. Nothing, he reminded himself, would be a wise choice in bed. He followed, sprawling in a chair across from Aziraphale’s straight-backed perch. 

“Tell me why you’re in Paris, angel.”

He straightened a lacy cuff, sparing Crowley a glance. “I believe I already did.”

His lips thinned. “I’m being serious, which is awful, but you’re driving me to it.”

“Well, I’m being quite serious too. It really is _impossible_ to find anyone in London who knows how to make a decent crêpe, and I don’t know when I’ll be able to come back here.”

“Why not? And don’t give me any of that ‘it’s personal’ nonsense.”

“It’s hardly nonsense. I’m sure someone in your rather exciting line of work wouldn’t understand.”

 _Had_ Heaven sent him orders? Something about the British monarchy? It wouldn’t be the first time Heaven had intervened in those affairs, though Aziraphale was truly dreadful when it came to politics. Power and wealth brought too much temptation for an angel to easily counteract, particularly when that angel didn't know all the rules or have all the powers that be at his disposal. “Try me.”

Aziraphale frowned, but Crowley didn’t cave. His nails bit into his palms hard enough to leave marks, but he didn’t give in until the frown faded into a sigh. “Well... You see, I- Well, I’ve decided that I’m going to open a bookshop.”

“ _Wot_.”

“Oh,” he huffed, gaze sliding away briefly. The pout was back when his gaze returned. “You see, I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

Crowley leaned forward, forgetting to keep his hands to himself. Long fingers closed around a wrist to keep Aziraphale’s attention on him. This wasn’t normal. Aziraphale never really had aspirations like that during these lives, always a source of contention between him and his assigned family as he seemed to wander the world aimlessly from an outsider’s point of view. And then he’d vanish and it was as if he’d never existed at all anyway. There were never clear _goals_.

Something was happening, Crowley realized. Something new. “The dots are a little far apart is all. Help me connect them.”

Aziraphale sighed gustily, but he didn’t try to pull away. He looked down at the contact, though, and Crowley felt the heavy divinity that normal preceded discorporation swell and recede. Like taking a breath. Crowley’s fingers flexed on his wrist. Like a reset.

What was he doing? What were either of them doing? He should’ve stayed away.

Crowley started to release him, ready to shut this whole meeting down, but he found his hand captured. He looked up, ready to start spluttering, but everything stalled when their gazes met. _Knowledge_. It lived in blue eyes for a beat, long enough for him to squeeze Crowley's hand and that alone before he reset. 

It wasn't quite like in 1601, where it had all felt so involuntary. That had been a controlled choice, that had been an angel fighting against that hopeless, endless cycle. 

So Crowley stayed, listening to Aziraphale tell him about his current family and how they very much disapproved of him opening a store for common people, but a bookshop just seemed like such a lovely idea. He himself adored books, after all, but Crowley certainly knew that. He'd only nodded and continued to listen. 

They were going to cut him off, he said snootily. He'd probably hate being described with that word,[49] but it was the only one Crowley could come up with. 

“So this was all some last hurrah before they do?” 

“'A hurrah,'” he hummed, irritation melting into a soft smile. “Yes, I think that's it. Before being arrested, of course.”

“Course,” Crowley murmured, the pieces falling into place at least a little bit. The human bit was easy - dissatisfied with his life and familial expectations, he'd decided to strike out and make a go of life on his own terms. Starting a business, something all his own to succeed or fail at. 

And it occurred to Crowley, as he sat there and listened, that the angel bit might be just as easy. Dissatisfied with Heavenly oppression. Crowley was used to viewing the human and angel as two separate things, but were they? Was Aziraphale Fell so different from Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate? 

“My dear, you seem to be a million kilometres away.”

“Further,” he murmured. 

“Oh, I don't mean to bore you. I'm sure you've done much more fascinating things than open a bookshop.”

He hadn't done anything so fascinating, so _rebellious_ , as carve out a home on Earth. “You're far from dull, angel.”

Aziraphale smiled. “You know, I don't believe I've ever had a gentleman so openly call me such a thing.”

“I'm not much of a gentleman.”

“I suppose not. ”Aziraphale smiled, a little teasing glint in his eye, and Crowley struggled against wondering if this was the human or the angel. Thinking of them as being the same was going to take some serious mental adjustment. Particularly since he still wasn't completely certain if this was the right choice to make. He didn't doubt for even a moment that Aziraphale wanted him to stay, but how far did that extend? 

“Let me order you those crêpes. If you're opening a bookshop, who knows when you'll be back?” 

“Precisely.” He beamed as Crowley rose, bright and shining. The sun streamed in through the windows, hitting his hair just right when he looked up, and it gave him a halo. Like at the inn near Edinburgh, he thought, arms suddenly aching to hold him as close as he had then. 

“I'll help you,” he blurted. 

“Pardon?”

“The bookshop. They're going to cut you off, aren't they? Hard to get a book supply or a building if you don't have funds.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, heart in his eyes even as he said the polite thing. “I couldn't possibly ask you-” 

“We'd be partners. Fifty-fifty. I want out of the war business and you want your own business. We'll build up slow, start finding books and a good spot.”

“I hardly know you.”

That was... actually probably true. Crowley knew virtually everything there was to know about Aziraphale, but the man still sitting there with his curls glinting like a golden halo had only known him for a short time. “Then I s'pose we'll have to stay in touch until you do. Then we can make an arrangement.”

“For Heaven’s sake,” he chided, lips twitching. 

“Never that,” he replied, watching Aziraphale try and fail to bite back his giggles. 

“Wily thing. What a terrible thing to say.” But he didn't ask Crowley to elaborate, waving a hand about something else entirely. “But, really, my dear fellow, you've no need to go through such lengths. You only met me at all due to your career.”

 _Career_ was one way to label being a demon. Full time gig, plenty of paid breaks and vacation. Horrid health insurance, worse dental. “Do you really think having you here is at all related to a job, Aziraphale? I should've just taken you to the first boat crossing the Channel.” Should've, if it really came down to it, left him in the Bastille to be discorporated and taken all the praise Hell would've given him for the number of Hellbound souls.

Crowley wanted less than nothing to do with that sort of praise, far more invested in the way Aziraphale's hands fluttered and eyes rounded, plump lips parting just a bit to let a heavy breath through. He didn’t know if this was the right choice or the wrong one, didn't know if he had any right to _want_ so badly to be in Aziraphale's presence. It had been almost six thousand years, only a few centuries shy of it now, and if Aziraphale could have the presence of mind - even only briefly - to ask him to stay... 

That couldn't be wrong, could it? He'd help Aziraphale get his home. He could at least do that. 

Aziraphale’s gaze fell to his hands, folded neatly in his lap. “Well... I suppose it isn’t _exactly_ part of your job description, but... It still seems a bit odd to make such an offer so readily.”

It did and was, Crowley quiet for a moment. He’d agreed so easily in 1601, but he supposed it was different now. Social norms had shifted, though it was difficult to keep up with what humans did and didn't deem acceptable. He'd probably have to find out[50] if he was going to try staying involved in Aziraphale's life for any length of time. 

“I s'pose-” 

“I suppose-” 

They stopped, looking at one another for a beat. Crowley waved a hand as Aziraphale started to tell him to go ahead, but when he stayed stubbornly quiet, the angel gave in. “I suppose a man of action such as yourself is used to making rash decisions.”

His lips quirked, head tilting to the side. “A man of action, am I?” 

“Well.”

Well. “We can discuss terms over crêpes. Draw up a proper contract and all once you've made a decision.”

“It's not my decisions I'm wary of, Crowley.”

No, but a contract with a demon was a special thing. Entering into one with an angel could be interesting. It could be... useful. Very useful. He’d have to think long and hard about the wording, so they would both be protected. “I won't let you down, angel.”

Aziraphale shrugged delicately, then smiled. “About those crêpes.”

* * *

* * *

### Footnotes

38. It was not, in any way, shape, or form “better” to stay away, but he did his best to convince himself.↩

39. It was not, in any way, shape, or form “safer” to stay away, but he did his best to convince himself.↩

40. This one was true.↩

41. Everything always goes back to Rome. And, technically, he managed to track down papyrus bearing Aziraphale’s name in hieroglyphs so his collection goes back further.↩

42. Crowley had absolutely no idea the mountain of paperwork Aziraphale would be and had been subjected to after every single discorporation, so we’ll allow him the mislaid jealousy.↩

43. In 1933 Sussex, Helen Lyndon Goff would see nearly half of his body disappear into the bag and, that winter, she started to get Ideas.↩

44. He’d done what he could to stem that Hellish (or Heavenly?) flood of absolutely pointless murder, but nothing had worked quite as spectacularly as a witch called Agnes Nutter back in 1656. Crowley had laughed when he’d heard about her rather explosive burning, murmuring “Good for her” to himself and wondering what Aziraphale would’ve thought.↩

45. And he would.↩

46. Angels are not occult. They are ethereal. One particular angel may not be able to uphold his honor at the present moment, but someone should.↩

47. Though he wasn’t so sure if he’d be able to resist having his own way with Aziraphale if he did.↩

48. He’s exaggerating, of course, but it’s been a long time since he saw Eden and, well, he’d paid more attention to the angel than to the garden itself.↩

49. He would. He thinks he's being quite properly miffed, not snooty.↩

50. Not that he'd work hard to follow those norms to the letter. He was a demon, after all.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure anyone reading realizes I'm going in order with the show, specifically episode three, as this continues to unravel. And next is 1856, but when an angel doesn't know he's an angel, we instead turn towards the deleted scenes in the script book.
> 
> Perhaps scenes featuring a bookshop opening, a demon with a box of chocolates, and a couple of Archangels.
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [SylWritesStuff](https://sylwritesstuff.tumblr.com/)!


	5. Make Me (Cry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bookshop is set to open, which is rather... unsettling to two particular Archangels. Perhaps they should see what the rogue Principality is up to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This chapter's song](https://open.spotify.com/track/2BrzlUj1u1CtvaJDGIKpsP?si=H4-xoxfOTV2LBm3hkzMfMg)
> 
> [Workskin help](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11549178/chapters/25935135) that was invaluable for this chapter and one to come later :D
> 
> And, as usual, [SkimmingTheSurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface) continues to be an indispensable part of my life and of this fic!
> 
> Sorry for the pain :D

_Let’s take one life at a time.  
_ _Perhaps the best way to do that is to live as though  
_ _there were no afterlife or reincarnation.  
_ _To live as though this moment was all that was allotted._

― Stephen Levine

* * *

**_1800  
_** **_Soho, London_ **

Most people called him Anthony. Aziraphale really didn't know why that amused him as much as it did, but he did know he had absolutely no desire to follow through on it himself. He wrote it in letters, each one beginning, _My dearest Anthony Crowley_. Yet it had been six months since he'd had to write. Six months since Crowley had returned to London. 

Aziraphale had a stack of letters from him, tied neatly with a red ribbon, and he certainly did feel as though he knew him far better than he had the day he'd been rescued from the Bastille. He also knew that Crowley had not spent seven years idle in France. He seemed to go everywhere and anywhere, the return address rarely the same twice. As if he couldn't settle. 

It certainly gave perspective as to why Crowley had been so ready and willing to go into business with him, to leave his current profession and have some stability. The poor dear was being run ragged, and it wouldn't be the first time someone laid their trust in him so quickly. Really, if he thought he could resist having things - his signet ring, his nice clothes, his _books_ \- then he may very well have done as his family asked and lead a church. 

As it was... 

He looked over his shoulder when the newly installed bell jingled, beaming when he saw who it was. “Crowley,” he greeted, his name alone a happy sigh. “Let me get down off this ladder, dear fellow, and not be so rude.”

“S'fine, angel. Plenty of books left to shelve.”

“Yes.” And so many had come from Crowley, so many lovely first editions. For some reason, he could never seem to get his hands on books of prophecy, which was what Aziraphale truly wanted. He didn't ever feel quite like he was in his right place, part of him wondering if looking to the future would give an answer to his present, but Crowley always hedged around questions about such things and Aziraphale didn't like to press. 

He continued to shelve while Crowley sauntered in, hands in his coat pockets as he wandered and peeked at what Aziraphale had already done. Or, well, what he'd redone. “They're not in order anymore.”

Aziraphale glanced down, feeling a little guilty. “Aren't they?” 

“No. We had them ordered by subject and title.”

“Yes, well...”

Crowley looked up at him, the wicked smile Aziraphale sometimes[51] saw in his dreams tugging at the corners of his lips. Oh, he was handsome. Aziraphale had thought the same seven years before - truly awful hairstyle and poor clothes aside - but as he'd gotten older, he looked even better. More distinguished, perhaps, yet somehow more prone to mischief. Somehow more familiar, though Aziraphale hardly allowed himself to dwell on such thoughts. 

“Well?” he prompted.

Aziraphale nearly said, “Well, I think you're quite lovely.”

What he in fact said was, “Well, I thought I would like it better this way.”

Brows arched over the dark sunglasses. “Bollocks to the customers then.”

“Oh, your _language_ ,” he huffed as he made his way down the ladder. “We are going to run a respectable business, Crowley. I'll hear none of that now.”

“To Hell with the custo- Oi!” he protested when Aziraphale swatted at him with his kerchief. “Stop that.”

“You wicked thing.” Aziraphale managed to keep his stern expression for a good ten seconds before it faded into a smile, gaze wandering the shelves. “I like it better when the books are free to be where they like.”

“Where _they_ like. The books.”

“Yes.”

Crowley paused, giving him the same peculiar look he so often did when Aziraphale did things that weren't quite in the realm of normal. He couldn't and hadn't yet seen his eyes, but he felt he knew just what was behind them. Crowley looked at him as if he was a puzzle to be solved, a riddle in need of answering. Just once, Aziraphale wished he'd look at him as if he was someone worth holding. He upped the wattage on his smile, banishing the thoughts, and Crowley sighed. 

“So no organization at all?” 

“Of course there's organization. The books are on shelves and not piled about the floor, aren't they?” He gave Crowley's arm a fond pat. “I don't plan on selling your books-” 

“Your books.”

“ _Our_ books to just anyone. Any good people who come in have to earn these books.”

Crowley tipped his head to the side, his half-smile so very amused and - if Aziraphale's heart could be believed[52] \- fond. “Right.”

“Right,” he agreed. The letters exchanged between them had said so much. They'd told him of Crowley's penchant for poetry, his ability to describe cities in such detail once he'd learned that Aziraphale was using his letters to help paint pictures of far off places. They told of his love for people, though he never said he had any. The way he complained about how they hurt each other explained that far better than any flowery words of praise for the goodness of humanity. Crowley seemed to see and understand the worst of people, but adored them anyway. 

Aziraphale adored that secret optimism, the sweetness he kept hidden behind dark sunglasses and sarcasm. And bad language. He was in polite society, not amongst the dregs he seemed more familiar with, but not following rules seemed to be just as much a part of him as his hair. Their writing hadn’t told him about this, how it had changed. It was still long, tied back in a thin black ribbon now instead of pinned up in those awful coils. Their writing hadn’t told him about the way a quirk of lips would be all it took to send Aziraphale into quite the tizzy. This absolute rogue could probably send women into very dramatic swoons, though no letter had ever once mentioned any dalliances and in the six months since Crowley had arrived in London, he hadn't seen any signs of such things. No prospects.

Aziraphale struggled very much to not be pleased by that. It was rude and it wasn't as if he had much of a chance anyway. It was inappropriate. They were business partners. And friends, though that word always caused his heart to flutter oddly. As if he'd been waiting a very long time - longer than he'd been alive - to be able to place that label upon Crowley and finally had an opportunity. It was just the sort of flight of fancy he'd expect from himself, considering all of the books he read, but this seemed to be something special. Why was just out of reach, it always was, and it could be terribly frustrating at times. 

“So what are customers going to have to do in order to buy one of the books?” 

Aziraphale smiled. “Know what they're looking for and then find it. Without any assistance from me.”

His brows arched. “Wot.”

“Yes. I think it's rather clever.”

Crowley leaned against the shelves, an amused quirk to his lips. “So you're not planning to sell a damn thing. No one's going to be able to come in here and know how to get anything.”

Aziraphale slanted him a look, chin lifting just so. “I'm of the opinion that one can always find what one loves.” The smile faded so quickly, Aziraphale immediately dropped the holier-than-thou tone and laid a hand on Crowley’s arm. “Oh- Crowley, I'm so sorry. Have I said something amiss? I-” 

“No, angel, s'fine. You're fine.”

“I upset you. I didn't mean to-” 

“Aziraphale.”

He so rarely called him by name that it brought him up short, the hand on Crowley’s arm gentle but still there because he hadn't shaken him away. “My dear?”

“D'you really believe that? The finding thing.”

“The love thing,” he corrected, not sure why it mattered. Not sure why he needed to say it. There was a gentle swell of something in him, something desperate to be free, but Aziraphale knew that he couldn't let it loose. He wasn't sure if it was his own feelings or something _else_. It could be so very frustrating to always second-guess himself and his own motivations. “Are your eyes gold?” he whispered, suddenly so sure he could almost see slitted pupils through dark lenses. 

Crowley shook him off and took a step away. “Wouldn't you like to know?” 

_Desperately_. “I suppose you aren't going to share.”

The smile returned, but Aziraphale couldn't help but feel as if he'd done something wrong. Perhaps that swell should've been allowed to crest, if only for a moment, but he was so wretchedly afraid of scaring Crowley away. 

His hands fluttered helplessly before he clasped them firmly behind his back. “Well, what brought you in today, my dear? I know you didn't come to put books on shelves.”

“No, I've got the contract drawn. Thought we could get it out of the way before opening.”

Aziraphale was more than happy to go without. They'd been doing everything else by trust thus far, so he had no idea why things needed to be so formal.[53] Still, he waved a hand towards an as-yet uncluttered desk. “Here, dearest, we'll have a look. Are we going to be in need of a witness and every such particular thing?”

Crowley smiled at him, secretive but coaxing. “I don't think we need to go through all that.”

“Well, you think we need an entire contract. I fail to see why any additions would be unexpected.”

“It's just for mutual protection, angel.”

“Do I _need_ protection from you?” 

Crowley pulled the contract out of his black bag,[54] and it didn't occur to Aziraphale to ask why the papers weren't wrinkled. He quietly laid two sheets out and, eventually, turned his head. “Do you?” 

That same thing tried to swell. He found his gaze locked on dark lenses, that same secret trying to rise and be known, but Aziraphale ignored it and took a step closer to begin to look at both copies. “I don't believe I do.” Not _from_ him, certainly. Crowley would never harm him. He tapped a page, leaning over the desk curiously. “This is much shorter than I expected.”

“Fancy things up too much and they lose their power.”

“Hm.” 

It all seemed to be acceptable, terms they'd already discussed at length. Fifty-fifty because Crowley wouldn't budge on the equality of this partnership, no matter that Aziraphale thought he'd brought much more to the shop. Those letters had never come without money stuffed inside the envelopes. How Crowley survived when he sent what was surely three paychecks' worth of funding his way every few weeks was truly baffling, but Aziraphale suspected that he simply came from exorbitant wealth and didn't know what things were worth in this day and age. 

There was also something about the actual running of the shop, Aziraphale’s lips quirking. “I have full managerial reign?” 

“Do I look like I run a bookshop?” he huffed. “Absolutely not. You've sole running responsibility. It'll just close if you're not around.”

“That would make the hours quite beastly. What if I get peckish?” 

“Just lock up behind you and stay out of France.”

Aziraphale giggled. “Wily serpent,” he murmured, catching a glimpse of the snake tattoo near his temple. “Perhaps we'll go again, one day. You and I. When there are less head-cutting machines.”

“Would you want to?” 

It was asked so quietly, so... So _hurt_ in response to the light way he’d suggested the trip that Aziraphale's breath caught for a moment and he had to clear his throat. “If you don't, that's all right. You need only say so.” Something hummed between them, buzzing like bees, but Crowley jerked his shoulders restlessly and Aziraphale returned his attention to the contract. Perhaps Crowley just didn't like grand gestures.[55] “What's this bit?” he asked, pushing the moment behind them. 

Crowley tipped his head down, watching where Aziraphale tapped. “Secrecy clause.”

“You want our Arrangement to be a secret?” Aziraphale pouted. He'd been looking forward to seeing Crowley more, but if this was to be some sort of covert thing... 

“It needs to be.”

Pouting, he'd discovered, tended to work on Crowley. The set of his lips shifted into something more pitiful. “But why?” 

His brow pinched, lips twisting. It was only the first step in making him give in. “It's safer.”

“We've already established that I don't feel-” 

A hand was suddenly on his skin, Aziraphale’s pulse scrambling as gentle fingers cupped his chin and quieted his protestations. “The... associates I've kept aren't going to react well if they know I've made an Arrangement with an angel.”

He almost didn't hear the words, entirely too focused on the touch. They so rarely did, and it was normally Aziraphale who initiated the light pats. Crowley was normally so careful to keep his distance; even when they sat side-by-side, he would slouch away. But the hold on him held so much gentleness that it nearly belied his strength. If he tried to pull away, Crowley could hold him in place with ease. 

Yet he wouldn't. He'd let him go, apologize in his gruff way if he mentioned it at all, and things would continue. 

Aziraphale risked something else entirely, taking advantage of the light touch and very carefully shifting into it. Tipped his head and encouraged those long fingers to unfurl and oh, so softly caress his cheek. He heard Crowley's breath catch, the soft “ngk” a weak attempt at a protest.

“I thought you were going to quit that life,” Aziraphale murmured, his own reflection in Crowley’s glasses making his cheeks warm against his palm. It was the first time, but it certainly didn’t feel like it.

“I can’t.” Regret coated his tone, desperation edging it. “I can- I can work around it, but I can’t altogether quit. S’not how it works, angel.”

Being called angel certainly felt different with Crowley cupping his cheek. Aziraphale closed his eyes to soak in that lovely sensation, that ripple which seemed to start in his heart and spread its warmth to the very tips of his fingers and his toes. “Why not? You’re free to do as you like.”

Crowley’s laugh was soft and surprisingly bitter,[56] Aziraphale’s lashes fluttering when his hand fell away. “You’d think that. Now will you sign the contract?”

Another mistake, he thought, staring at Crowley’s hand before it disappeared into a pocket. He seemed to be plagued by them this morning. “I haven’t finished reading it.”

“Cor,” he complained.

Smiling, ignoring that insistent swell when it came back to taunt him again, Aziraphale reached for his quill and a pot of ink. “You know I will, Crowley. I have complete faith in you.”

“Ngk.”

He looked back down. Fifty-fifty split of any profit, only he himself could run the shop and it would be left closed to anyone but Crowley when he was unavailable, their Arrangement was to remain a secret - all quite simple. There was a fourth thing, but he didn’t focus on it. He instead scrawled his name with a little bit of a flourish, smiling to himself even as he bit his own thumb and drew blood.

“Angel,” was whispered beside him as he streaked the wound across the second copy, and that swell crested inside of him.

The tide could only rise for a moment, the wards miracled onto his corporation weaker than normal thanks to the briefness of his last stint in Heaven but still very much there. He could feel their threat as keenly as he could his own flood of emotions, gaze locking on Crowley’s through the sunglasses as he stared back. Apologies, promises, explanations, wishes would need so much more time than they had. “You clever darling,” was all he could say as himself, as his whole self, before the tide rolled back and he blinked in surprise at his own bleeding hand. “Oh, my- I’ll be back in just a moment, my dear. I should bandage this.”

“Right,” Crowley breathed, sounding a little too small.

Aziraphale sent him an apologetic smile and rushed off while Crowley picked up the quill and signed. By the time he returned, the second copy was gone and he didn’t think to question it. Especially not when Crowley said, “How about lunch, angel?”[57]

\----

 _You clever darling_.

It wasn’t the first time Aziraphale had called him clever in these last seven years. He was just full of compliments, it seemed, able to do and say as he liked[58] while in a human guise. He had a stack of letters in his bag, tied together by the palest of blue ribbons. White may have been the more obvious choice, but the blue felt a bit more personalized. More _Aziraphale_ than angel.

But while it wasn’t the first time he - or, rather, his exploits - had been called clever, it was the first time it had happened with blue eyes so full of true divinity on him. He’d been wondering just how he’d go about convincing Aziraphale to get a drop of blood on the second copy of the contract. Their names were all well and good, powerful in their own right, but a blood pact with a demon? A blood pact between a demon _and_ an angel? Crowley couldn’t think of a single thing stronger. Not only would the contract ensure that no one in Heaven or Hell knew of his connection to the bookshop, it kept it permanent for Aziraphale. For him too, sure, but it was Aziraphale’s. A hideaway for his books besides the deep recesses of Crowley’s miracled bag and a... a home, of sorts, on Earth. A place to come back to anytime after Heaven gave him fresh orders.

Crowley had never thought of getting such a place for himself. Inns were always an option, their rooms open to him whenever he liked, and sometimes he'd commandeer an empty house or flat for a decade or two. But with them owning this fifty-fifty, it was sort of like they'd bought a home together. A little. His rapidly beating heart certainly said it was like that. 

Closing his eyes, Crowley waited for his carriage to come to a stop. Buying a home together was a pipe dream. Aziraphale with his revolving door of lives, a punishment Crowley didn't understand, would never be able to really make that sort of choice. He'd never buy a home with a demon. Choose to live there. Choose to be with him. Choose him over Heaven. 

Crowley couldn't ask him to. He was fighting this as an angel, and Crowley would never pull him Down. He liked being a demon, but he didn't think Aziraphale would. So if it felt like buying a home _together_ , he had to remember that it was more like he'd given Aziraphale a big gift. 

The carriage stopped and Crowley glanced out the window at the big “A.Z. Fell & Co.” etched into the corner shop above its door. It was a very big gift to go along with all the others, he thought, picking up the box of chocolates at his side. Maybe it was a bit much, but he knew what his angel liked. 

He stepped out of the carriage, sending the taxi away with a wave of his hand. It was certainly easier than having his own and raising a Golem everytime he wanted to go anywhere. Aziraphale looked up from his desk when he heard the bell ringing, all expected protests over not yet being open dying on his tongue. He rose with a bright smile instead, the kind that made Crowley's heart ache and his fingers itch. He could still feel that soft cheek against his palm, warm and smooth under his touch. It had taken everything in him not to step closer and get those lips under his. 

The innocently made dig about Free Will had been like a bucket of cold water, Crowley still annoyed by it. How cruel to give Aziraphale the illusion that he was able to do as he liked, that he had that entirely human gift. How wretched to not know one was a pawn. 

“Hello, my dear! It's opening day tomorrow,” he gushed. “I can hardly dare imagine it.”

Crowley had to smile, lips curving despite himself as he offered the box. “Thought I'd bring a congratulations gift.”

“Oh!” he gasped, taking the unlabeled box. His lashes fluttered, batting them in a way that was just as effective on his heart as the smile. “How lovely. You'll have to have a piece with me.”

“I don't think one's supposed to partake in a gift.”

Aziraphale giggled, turning away to head to the back and Crowley helpless to do anything but follow. “You partake in the wine you gift me, you rapscallion. You can survive a piece of chocolate.”

The bell jingled and Crowley quickly stepped behind a shelf, much to Aziraphale's amusement. “Silly serpent,” he chided playfully, setting the box on a short table before he turned. “I am afraid the shop will not be open until Friday, good people. But we will be having a grand opening immediately after lunch,” he explained as he made his way back to the front. 

“We aren't here to buy books, Aziraphale.” 

Crowley's blood ran cold[59] at the voice. He hadn't heard it in thousands of years, but it sounded just as judgemental as it ever had. _Gabriel_. He slithered onto a shelf, body shedding its limbs and covering itself in scales as he hid himself amongst the books. He edged closer so he could see Gabriel and, unfortunately, Sandalphon beside him. They were astonishingly well-dressed, very in-fashion for the times. His forked tongue flicked in annoyance. He hadn't known angels had fashion sense. 

Aziraphale, bless him, was looking back and forth between them with a slightly puzzled look. “I'm terribly sorry. Have we met?” 

“There, see? I told you the wards were holding properly, Sandalphon.” Gabriel clapped a hand on the shorter, rounder angel's shoulder.

He smiled brittley in response, his gold tooth glinting. “Of course.”

“Wards? So sorry, I-” 

The snap reverberated through the bookshop, and Aziraphale jerked like a puppet on a string. Crowley almost hissed, but was more than a bit wary of showing himself to a pair of Archangels. When Aziraphale settled again, Crowley realized his Grace was there. It wrapped around him like a warmth blanket, a gasp of a hiss escaping anyway.

No one heard him, thankfully, two of the three angels having no idea he was even there.[60] Aziraphale clasped his hands tightly behind his back the moment he was steady on his feet again, back ramrod straight. “Gabriel, Sandalphon. I don't believe I've seen either of you on Earth before.”

Oh, that tone. Crowley coiled around a leather-bound book and peered over the top. That tone was _not_ the sort of thing one used around an Archangel, and it certainly wasn't the bitter sort of thing he'd ever expected to hear out of Aziraphale. He could only just see his profile, attention more on the Archangels lest they try something. He didn’t know what he’d do to stop them, but it’d be _something_.

Gabriel smiled tightly. “We check in when prudent.”

“It's been more than five thousand years with countless wars, plagues, cruelty, and ungodly behavior between them. I'm fascinated to learn what _prudent_ means to you, Gabriel.”

“Don't be unpleasant, _Aziraphale_.” As if his very name were an insult.

“Oh, yes, jolly good. Allow me to turn down my humanity. Pardon me terribly for thinking that's what you _wanted_ from me.”

Though the Grace Crowley was wrapped up in was still soft and warm, the crackling energy by the door was far from either. Angry, bitter, a little afraid, yes, but it wasn't anything he was used to from Aziraphale. It was dangerous to be... openly hostile to a fellow angel, particularly an Archangel. _Particularly_ two of them. What in the world-? 

“The only thing we've come for is to find out what you're doing with all...” Gabriel waved a dismissive hand. “This.”

“My bookshop?” Aziraphale looked around and Crowley thought, for a moment, the angel looked his way. “At present, I'm enjoying it.”

“That isn't what you were supposed to be doing with this life, Aziraphale. I thought we'd discussed the expectations of the family we were assigning you.”

“And I thought I'd made it quite clear how I felt about using humans as _assignments_.”

“They should be glad to serve the Almighty!” 

“They don't _know_!” Aziraphale snapped, and the building shook around them. Gentle Grace kept Crowley steady.

Gabriel’s spine somehow straightened, chin lifting. “This is obviously not the best place to be having this conversation. Perhaps we'll table it until the next time you _die_.”

Sandalphon smirked. “Your frequent discorporations are pretty... unbecoming of an angel.”

“Now, now, Sandalphon, the Earth must be riddled with... difficulties.”

“Well, after nearly six thousand years, one would assume he'd learned how to navigate those difficulties.”

Crowley couldn't quite see Aziraphale's expression from his perch, but he could _feel_ the righteous fury pouring off him in waves. “One would also assume that my exemplary performance in the light of such... mistreatment and-” 

“Mistreatment?” Gabriel echoed, sounding genuinely shocked. 

Sandalphon sniffed. “It is a just punishment for disobeying the orders of your betters.”

“I would hardly call this _just_. Would other angels?” Aziraphale asked conversationally, Crowley fascinated by the level of threat in the simple question. He was missing something vital here, wasn't he? 

Gabriel’s genial expression shifted. It was so subtle, it was hardly noticeable, but Crowley had been on the other side of that look once. Just before the Fall. He tensed and coiled despite the warm Grace still wrapped soothingly around his scales. 

But Aziraphale wasn't sent spiraling for his carefully worded threat or his outright hostility. Gabriel only said, “As Archangels, we make the best judgment calls we can. Your early failures and insubordination were in need of repercussions, so-” 

“The only insubordination I am guilty of was in not listening to you. And, you, Gabriel, are _not_ the Almighty.”

Stunned silence fell between the two Archangels. Crowley reared back, head lifting off the book he'd been resting against. If he'd had hands, he would've clapped. What an implied accusation _that_ was. 

“I certainly never claimed to be. Now I think that's enough. This life cycle has clearly gone to your head, Aziraphale. We came to find out just what you think you're doing, opening a business instead of joining the priesthood, but I think that's a moot point now.”

“Do you?” Aziraphale wondered quietly. 

Gabriel’s hand came down in a snap. Then another. Then a third for good measure. Crowley felt the barest tug of flame trying to ignite the leather binding and delicate pages he was wrapped around, but nothing happened. “What in the-? Sandalphon, burn this building to the ground.”

“Happily.” But one, two, three snaps did even less than Gabriel's. Four, five, and six were no better. “What have you done?” 

Aziraphale's chin lifted. “Oh, did I forget to mention? I have a business partner.”

“That doesn't matter,” Gabriel explained through gritted teeth. 

“Oh, but it does. We signed a contract and everything. Such a human thing to do, I think, but I'm afraid I got a little cut and the deal was sealed with some angelic blood.” What Crowley could see of his smile was all smugness, some of his own pride bubbling. The contract was working in ways he hadn't expected. The fourth clause had been written in such tiny print, he hadn’t even been sure if Aziraphale would be able to read it. _The building will be under our protection until it is jointly decided that we leave it behind_ \- not the sort of thing he’d truly expected to stand up under the brunt of an Archangel’s wrath but, well, he hadn’t expected to _see_ an Archangel on Earth after all this time.

“So until the contract is rendered moot,” Aziraphale continued, “there's not a _thing_ any of you can do about it.”

“When your co-owner dies-” 

“Two lovely things about humans, Gabriel, are reproduction and _wills_. Whoever this building is left to after my next untimely discorporation, the contract will continue.” Crowley uncoiled and coiled again in a burst of ecstatic energy. Lovely thing about demons was not having a _need_ for reproduction and wills. This really and truly meant they'd done it, then. They'd ensured Aziraphale would always have this place as a home. Any new life he lived would have this place, some stability for him at last. Crowley would make sure of it.

Just as important, this also meant that he’d understood. He’d gotten it right. The human he was forced into being wasn’t different from the angel he was supposed to be. They _were_ the same.

 _Oh, bollocks._ They were the same. He’d kissed an angel. Twice now, he’d kissed an angel, and said angel was obviously on thin ice in Heaven.

“Did you do it on purpose?” Gabriel demanded, rescuing Crowley from his spiking worries. 

“And how, pray tell, would I have? Your wards keep everything wrapped up quite tightly unless absolutely necessary, and I am not yet discorporated.”

Such a wonderful bastard, Crowley thought fondly, tipping his head and gently bunting the Grace. It rippled against his scales in reply, making his heart thunder in his chest. _Oh_. Oh, that was a deliberate sort of thing. Deliberate and as pleasant as the few times he'd been able to hold the angel in his arms. It almost felt like a return of all the pent up feelings, but-

This was so dangerous. More dangerous than anything Aziraphale should ever have to risk. Crowley still didn’t want him to Fall. The angel was still too sweet for Hell. He had to leave again.

He wasn’t the only one. Gabriel frowned, tugging his coat just so. “Fine, fine. Though there has been some discussion on the... strength of the wards this time around.”

Aziraphale was still a horrible liar, hands returning behind his back to clasp tightly. “Doubting, Gabriel?” he taunted instead of having to. Crowley didn’t know if he was more proud of or terrified for him.

“Hmph. Come along, Sandalphon. We’ll leave him to his humanity.”

“See you in a few years,” Sandalphon sneered, turning to follow Gabriel out the door. “You know. When you die.”

The door slammed behind them hard enough to make some of the shelves wobble dangerously. And the snake slid off the book. “Crowley.”

He looked over as he shifted, heart twisting in his chest when he saw Aziraphale watching him. “Angel-”

“Oh, no, dearest, please. Allow me. I- Oh, this is extraordinarily difficult.” He wrung his hands together, all that whiplash anger falling into the uncertainty Crowley was more used to seeing from his angel. “I don’t have time for this. I- it’s just that I have a question for you, and it’s extremely vital. And it’s, oh, it’s more a favor but-”

Crowley couldn’t help but step closer, drawn to him as he’d been since the garden. Things were so very different, but that hadn’t changed. This was the longest he’d been around him as an angel since those days, and he didn’t know what to think about it. He didn’t know fully how to handle him really being there. “Do you remember all of it?”

Aziraphale paused, glancing back at the door, then back to Crowley. He nodded almost helplessly. “You’re thinking of Rome and Edinburgh,” he sighed, and Crowley didn’t know if he should nod or shrug so did some sort of aborted wiggle. “That’s just what I wanted to discuss. I was- _Oh-_!”

There was a shudder in the air around them. The Grace Crowley had been wrapped in - wrapped in still - seemed to physically flex in a futile attempt to keep its grip on him. Almost like a whirlpool, the things which made Aziraphale angelic were sucked back into his being. It was fast and tight, but Crowley already knew he’d feel the way Azirapale’s Grace desperately clung to him for a long, _long_ time. He’d see the way all that light got sucked in and forcefully packaged deep into his corporation over and over again. He’d have nightmares over the pained sound Aziraphale made as he was freshly warded and reduced to a simple human.

He was so much more.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed, a hand lifting to his head and his knees seeming to wobble. Crowley caught him before he could fall, letting Aziraphale grip and cling to his coat as he pulled himself together. “Terribly sorry, dear fellow. I don’t know what’s come over me.”

His eyes were damp when he looked up, tears clinging to pale lashes, and Crowley had to fight every instinct he had to not kiss him in that moment. That terrible, wretched moment. It was worse than watching him reset, worse than watching him discorporate. “You’re fine, angel.”

“For some strange reason, I’m not so sure that I am.” But he smiled anyway, so close, too close. “Where were we?” Crowley stared at him silently until Aziraphale’s smile faded. “Crowley?”

“I have to go.”

“Oh. Already? I-”

“Asssignment,” he lied, hiss cracking through.

He felt Aziraphale’s breath hitch, their chests close. Too close. “What?” he whispered. “For how long?”

Forever. For real, this time. He’d given Aziraphale a home, but he couldn’t do more. It wasn’t a safe risk. His lips pressed against Aziraphale’s temple, lingering a second too long. “I don’t know. I’ll write you.” He wouldn’t.

“When are you leaving?” But Crowley was already backing away from him, Aziraphale’s attempts to cling to his jacket as futile as the attempts his Grace had made. “Crowley?”

“Goodbye, Aziraphale.”

“Crowley-”

He was already gone, his retreat hasty and mostly miracled.

\----

 **_1852  
_****_Rochester, New York_ ** **_[61]_**

_My dearest_ ~~_Anthony_ ~~ _Crowley,_

_You told me you would write._ _Perhaps_ _believing you was foolish._ ~~_We knew one another for such a short time, after all_ ~~ _~~.~~ And yet_

Ink blotted the page, hesitation marks from the tip of his quill. 

_I did not doubt. I still hold faith in you,_ ~~_though I'm quite certain you've forgotten about me by now. Are you even alive?_ ~~ _I don’t suppose someone in your line of work has a high life expectancy._ ~~_It would seem that bookshop owners do, however, so I was hoping that same luck applied to you._ ~~

_Though I know I’m_ _~~not~~ _ _going to send this._ ~~_Perhaps that’s why_ ~~ _it feels so safe to write it to you, to finally put the truth to paper while I am still able. I was so frightened of scaring you away that I wasted my opportunities to be honest while you were still by my side._

_I miss you terribly. It should have gone away by now, but the feeling refuses to do so. My life seemed so colorful when you were around. I miss your wit, your penchant for poetry, your mysteries. I miss those silly sunglasses you wore at all hours. I miss having your lanky frame darken my door. At every jingle of the bell, my hope stirs anew._

_I did try to detest you for a time. I think I nearly managed it once, but nothing could so break my heart as you not being in it. It was cowardly of me to even try to ignore what has been within my spirit since the first._

More ink blotted the page there, more hesitation marks. They almost looked like a word. They almost looked like _Eden_.

_I miss you, Crowley._

_I always save you a piece of chocolate, and the last glass of wine. They last longer than they ought, I believe, but perhaps that’s just the magic_ ~~_of you. Or of me. Perhaps_ ~~ _of us, though that seems as if it wasn’t meant to be. Not in this life._

_Do you believe in reincarnation, dearest? darling? beloved?_

_I_ ~~_didn’t, and_ ~~ _don’t_ ~~_know that I do now. If it does exist,_ ~~

The ink smudged, the page dotted in droplets.

_however, I hope to one day come back as yours._

_I pray your days pass with joy, Crowley, or that God’s Plan has kind things in store for you. I never pray to see you again, but I hope. Thank you for not forcing me to say goodbye when you did._

_Truly yours,_

_Aziraphale_ ~~_Fell_ ~~

The paper felt divine. It had come to him in the night without an envelope, without an address. Just neatly folded and soaked in an angel’s miracle. Crowley desperately wished he hadn’t read it.

“We can’t,” he whispered, staring at the droplets. Tear stains on parchment. “I won’t let you Fall.” 

But he added the letter to an envelope he brought to creation with a thought and added it to the stacked bundle he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of. Then he began his trip back to London, knowing an angel wouldn’t be at the bookshop anymore.

* * *

* * *

### Footnotes

51. Always. It was almost nightly, now. Sometimes, he’d dream of truly bizarre things like carriage rides in Shakespearian garb or oysters in Rome. Sometimes, the dreams felt incredibly real. And yet...↩

52. It could.↩

53. Says the ridiculously formal angel.↩

54. And, yes, most of Aziraphale's actual books were still inside it. Though now that Crowley knew of his business plan, perhaps he'd sneak a few randomly onto shelves. The signed books of prophecies and collection of mistake-riddled Bibles would stay as long as necessary, however. He couldn't imagine a stronger trigger than those.↩

55. Hahahahahahahhahahahahahahaha↩

56. The idea that either of them had anything even close to Free Will was nothing short of a cruel joke. Even without knowing he was an angel, Aziraphale still had to follow Heavenly commands. And, whether Crowley wanted to admit to it or not, even his freedom from Hell had limits. His paperwork was riddled with lies and it was often late, but he still submitted it.↩

57. As if he would ever turn down a meal. Particularly not one with Crowley.↩

58. To a point, of course. There would be, well, Heaven to pay if the Archangels ever bothered paying more than sparse attention to their earthly angel.↩

59. An impressive feat, considering that he was already a cold-blooded snake.↩

60. While Sandalphon had smelled evil, he assumed it was just the average stench of humans or just the building itself. He hadn’t been to Earth nearly enough to suspect anything else.↩

61. Crowley had heard fascinating things about Frederick Douglas and wanted to hear his speech. It had been a grand affair and he’d gotten drinks (non-alcoholic, unfortunately for Crowley) with him afterwards to see what he could glean about the state of the, well, States. War seemed to be stirring, but it was nice that the world was finally starting to see slavery as a bad thing. He’d seen it nearly from the start, after all, and he was as... unimpressed as ever by the very concept.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at [SylWritesStuff](https://sylwritesstuff.tumblr.com/) and my lovely beta at [skimmingmilk](https://skimmingmilk.tumblr.com/).


	6. Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A church is bombed, and what exactly are you a Lance Corporal in?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Our ch song](https://open.spotify.com/track/17fOXtqRkIxyLSXtOMv9dG?si=iLJjNiwNSN62hI4nQMZ8rw)  
> [SkimmingTheSurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface) is a wonderful beta and a fabulous writer in her own right. Check her out! 
> 
> There’s going to be a lot of the show in this chapter, so it’s extra long to make up for that. Bear with me <3  
> And enjoy the church scene~

_And only the enlightened can recall their former lives;  
_ _for the rest of us, the memories of past existences are but glints of light,  
_ _twinges of longing, passing shadows, disturbingly familiar,  
_ _that are gone before they can be grasped,  
_ _like the passage of that silver bird on Dhaulagiri._

― Peter Matthiessen

* * *

**_1941  
_** **_London_ **

Aziraphale Fell, mild-mannered bookshop owner by day, clever spy by night. He had to swallow a giggle.[62] It was _far_ from appropriate, particularly at night when the bombs threatened. The Blitz, they were calling it, an exciting name for a nightly horror. As it was, Aziraphale was not selling many books from his little corner in Soho, but he hardly minded. The inheritance he'd gotten from a previously unknown uncle[63] at eighteen had included such an enormous sum in the safe that Aziraphale was quite sure he'd never have to sell a single book if he didn't want. 

After thirty-three years in the business, Aziraphale was quite happy to admit that he certainly didn't want. He'd so much rather sit in his favorite armchair and read those fascinating, aging tombs than part with them. In fact, he'd taken quite a liking to bookbinding and restoration on the darlings. It felt second nature to him, though he'd certainly not been in the practice before inheriting the shop. He'd just... picked it up. Must be in the blood somewhere. 

And so must be all this espionage business. He thought he was quite good at it, to be immodest for a moment. It had been very difficult to track down books of prophecy during a war, but he'd admittedly had half of them already. His introduction into the world of spies had even come from just filling out his collection. He'd met a young lady with British intelligence at a bidding war, easily outdoing her for the Nostradamus first edition. He never understood why he always felt a little disappointed when he opened the cover, but was still delighted to have it. His collection of prophetic texts felt a little more complete. 

It felt as good as listening to the young lady had, whispering with her over what he could do for the war effort at dinner after the auction. While he’d certainly been old enough in the Great War to fight in it, he’d somehow evaded conscription.[64] With eleven years between him and forty, he had no fear of it during this second one either. Two World Wars in so few years was a truly terrible thing, this one just as bad as the first. Even without the chemical warfare, something in the air just felt... unholy. The dreadful Nazi propaganda was... Well, it hardly bared thinking about, but it certainly spurred him into action more readily than the mess of politics which had driven the first war.

Which was why he was out in the Blitz despite the air sirens and frightening search lights, trying to bite back giggles. The plan was in place and it was going to be rather lovely. As he slipped into the grand church, he took a brief moment to lament the meeting place had to be in such a sacred building. It sobered him enough that he was able to remove his hat and gaze down the aisle, finding two men awaiting his arrival by the pulpit. An unsafe amount of candles lit the opulent, otherwise empty place of worship, and cast them in rather dramatic shadows.

It almost felt a bit like a film, but he held that giddy thought at bay as he strode down the aisle. Five books were bundled by his side, tied carefully and neatly in a rope. The treasonous and round Mr. Glozier and the slender, bespectacled Mr. Harmony watched them as much as they did him during the nearly silent approach. His footfalls and the muffled air raid sirens were all that could be heard, and Aziraphale sent up a little prayer when he stopped. Hopefully, this all went according to plan.

“Mr. Glozier, Mr. Harmony,” he greeted.

Mr. Glozier checked his pocketwatch. “Mr. Fell, you are late.” It closed with a snap, and Aziraphale fought not to pout at him. He was most certainly not late. Or, well, if he _was_ it was because of the dratted air raids and his inability to drive. “But not to worry.”

Mr. Harmony rose, his peculiar accent not quite German but certainly not English. “You have the books for the Fuehrer?”

“Yes, I do.” He set them on the table between the two men, not willing to hand them directly to either. “Books of prophecy - Otwell Binns, Robert Nixon, Mother Shipton. First editions, as requested.”

“What about the other book we told you to bring us?” Mr. Harmony wondered, looking over the pile. “The Fuehrer was most definite that he needs it. It has the prophecies that are _true_. With the true prophecy book, the war - _heh_ \- is as good as won.”

“ _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch_. No luck. I’m afraid that is the Holy Grail of prophetic books.” And he would give nearly everything to have a copy. Even if he’d found one, he wouldn’t have brought it here. As it was, he thought his books being manhandled by these Nazis was awful and a little frighteningly close to candles.

“The Fuehrer also wants the Holy Grail,” Mr. Glozier interjected, and Aziraphale really wished he wouldn’t paw at the texts so hamfistedly. “And the Spear of Destiny, should you run across them.” Aziraphale gave him a small smile, the barest hint of a nod.

“Why are there no copies of Agnes Nutter’s book?” Mr. Harmony looked up from one of them, a magnifying glass studying the cover as if he though Aziraphale would bring him fakes. How terribly rude. “We have made it clear that money is no object. You will be a very rich man.”

He already was, but understood and appreciated that he didn’t always present that side of himself. “The unsold copies of _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies_ were destroyed by the publisher. Which is, eh, well, all of them. It never sold a single copy. But! I found the publisher’s catalogue for 1655, and it does list _one_ of Agnes Nutter’s prophecies.” 

“What was it?” Mr. Harmony asked, intrigued despite himself. 

“Her prophecy for 1972: ‘Do not buy Betamax _._ ’”

“Who is Peter Max?” Mr. Glozier wondered.

“I have no idea.” But he would _love_ to find out what a Betamax was. Maybe if he held on for another thirty years, he’d know.

Mr. Harmony’s brows drew together and he nodded. “I will pass it on to the Fuehrer.”

“These volumes of prophecy will be in Berlin by the end of the week,” Mr. Glozier claimed loftily, passing the book he held to Mr. Harmony to be examined. “The Fuehrer will be most grateful.”

Oh, that’s what they thought. Aziraphale could barely contain his excitement now, eyes lit by more than just the candles as he smiled and swayed in place.

“You have been exceedingly helpful, Mr. Fell,” Mr. Harmony chimed in.

The sound of a gun cocking drew Aziraphale’s attention right back to Mr. Glozier, his heart twisting a little when he saw the deadly thing aimed right at him. “Such a pity you must be eliminated, but take heart, just another death in the Blitz.”

 _Guns_ had certainly not been part of the plan. At least not ones aimed specifically at him. He had too many books left to read to be killed. But he had his backup plan and an inherent distaste for weapons, so didn’t look at it for long. “That’s not very sporting.”

“You do not appear worried, my friend.”

Behind him, heels clicked around the stone floors and another gun cocked. Aziraphale nearly heaved a sigh of relief when the new arrival spoke, “He’s not worried.” 

“Who is she?” Mr. Harmony wondered.

Aziraphale practically bounced in place, speaking while she stepped closer. “ _She_ , my double-dealing Nazi acquaintance, is the reason why _none of those books_ are going back to Berlin!” The two Nazis raised their hands in peaceful surrender, Mr. Glozier setting his gun aside. Brilliant. “And why your nasty little spy ring will be spending the rest of the war behind bars. Let me introduce you to Captain Rose Montgomery of British Military Intelligence.”

“Thank you for the introduction,” she praised and Aziraphale beamed at her. Oh, this was thrilling. A caper worthy of one of his books, absolutely. 

“Our side[65] know all about you two,” he continued, looking back at the Nazis, eager to spill everything now that it was safe. “She recruited me to work for you, and now she’s going to tell you that this building is being surrounded by British agents and that you two have been - oh, what is that lovely American expression? Played for suckers!”

“Yes, uh, about that-”

“Right. Everyone! Come on! Round them up!” Mr. Harmony was the one barely containing his smile now, and no one was coming out of the shadows. Not... quite how he’d expected this to work, really. “Rose, where- where exactly are your people?”

Mr. Harmony couldn’t fight his laughter a moment longer, hands falling. “We are all here.”

“Hm. Allow me to introduce Fraulein Greta Kleinschmidt. She works with us,” Mr. Glozier explained, while Captain Montgomery turned the pistol on him.

Far too close for comfort, Aziraphale took several steps back from her on a sharp exhale. Then he realized what was being said, what had happened, and he gasped on a sharp turn of his head towards the two Nazis. Not British Intelligence, then, but another Nazi. Oh, dear. His books, he fretted while Mr. Glozier and Captain- er, Fraulein Kleinschmidt spoke in German to one another. He didn’t speak a word of it himself, but he had no doubts they were threatening him in some form or fashion. Choosing what to do with him.

Oh, his poor books were going to be whisked away to _Germany_. It was _awful_. 

“‘Played for a sucker,’” Mr. Harmony quoted, seeming quite pleased with the whole infernal situation. “I must remember that. I am played for a sucker, you are played for a sucker. He, she, it,” he chuckled as he gathered Aziraphale’s books into a leather satchel, “will be played for a sucker.”

“Now, where were we?” Mr. Glozier hummed, hands clasped behind his back while Mr. Harmony hefted the book-filled bag and watched. Aziraphale pressed himself against a pew, finding himself unfortunately trapped when Mr. Glozier added, “Oh, yes! Killing you.”

“I would really rather you didn’t. I-”

The church door slammed, a man gasping immediately and audibly as he more hopped than walked down the church aisle. Aziraphale felt the sharpest, strangest sense of relief course through him without the faintest idea why. For all he knew, it was just another Nazi. Or possibly an insane person judging by what came out of his mouth when he drew closer, “Sorry, consecrated ground. Oh, it’s like being at the beach in bare feet.”

Aziraphale glanced at his shoes, wondering just what he was on about. He was rather sharply dressed in his trim black suit and fedora to be an insane person, yet... He was also wearing sunglasses. At night. In a church.

“Right, let’s go. Sooner we get out of here, the better.” He beckoned towards Aziraphale and his spine straightened anew, gripping his hat and baffled by the way he did indeed just want to go with him. He looked quizzically at the two - the _three_ Nazis. Gosh, he wasn’t even getting a chance to feel properly betrayed. But he looked at the three of them, and they seemed just as confused by this fresh presence as he himself was.

“I- I’m sorry? Me?” he clarified, watching him continue to bounce about.

“Yes, you, obviously.”

Aziraphale’s lips pursed a touch. “Hardly obvious.”

“Oi! I am _trying_ to stop you from getting into trouble.”

“What are you- How do you know-” Aziraphale gestured to the three wretched Nazis, losing patience with this whole situation. His brilliant caper gone right out the window, his books still in the clutches of someone terribly evil, a gun still aimed in his relative direction, and now a devilishly handsome- Oh, no, he cut that thought right off. Insane persons should not be thought of as handsome.[66] Mysterious, insane, bouncing persons. “Are these people working for you?” he demanded.

He leaned against a pew, somehow looking terribly insulted for someone who couldn’t keep his feet firmly planted on the ground and his sunglasses still covering his eyes. “ _No_ , they’re a bunch of... half-witted Nazi spies running ‘round London blackmailing and murdering people! I just didn’t want to see _you_ embarrassed.”

A bit late for that, frankly. Light colour dusted his cheeks and he looked away to find the gun was now aimed on this newcomer. Oh. Perhaps he didn’t work with them.

“Mr. Anthony J. Crowley,” Mr. Glozier realized, catching Aziraphale’s attention. _Crowley_. Something whispered over his skin at the name, sinking into his very bones and stirring his heart. “Your fame precedes you.”

Fame? What could he be famous for? And how did these Nazis know of him? Why did Aziraphale feel as though he knew him? “Crowley,” he breathed, hardly aware of it.

Crowley seemed to be. Er, well, Mr. Crowley? Somehow that didn’t feel right, and he couldn’t explain it. He couldn’t explain any of this suddenly and was starting to feel rather dizzy. Crowley shouldn’t be in a church, something told him. It wasn’t safe, the fool.

But of course it wasn’t safe. There were _guns_ about.

“Angel?”

And, though there was a lady present, Aziraphale looked up as if Crowley was speaking to him. He blinked in surprise when he realized that, well, he was. “Oh, dear.”

“Looking a little sick there.”

“I- I may need a lie down, yes.”

The Fraulein seemed as intrigued by him as Aziraphale. “The famous Mr. Crowley?”

No. It was definitely _just_ Crowley. Aziraphale rubbed his thumb against his temple to try and banish the thoughts.

“That’s such a pity, you must both die,” she continued, but Crowley seemed thoroughly unconcerned by her threats. He just slid a finger along the brim of his hat in slight acknowledgment. A little tip that was almost foolishly polite, given the circumstances and his continued discomfort.

 _Get off your feet_ , Aziraphale thought, some distant part of him hearing wings. He could almost see them. Black, shiny, well-groomed, so different from yet much the same as his own- “What does the J stand for?” he asked instead, mind reeling.

“Mnngh. Just a J, really.” And in his turning and bouncing, seemed to notice something across the room. “Look at that! A whole fontful of holy water. It doesn’t even have guards!”

“We are in a church,” Aziraphale reminded him.

“That standard church practice?”

“I- Well, yes, of course.” Aziraphale shook his head, stopping himself from reaching out when he noticed a little serpentine tattoo at his temple. What did his hair look like now? Shorter, he thought, than he’d ever seen it before or since Rome. Not that he’d ever seen it before. He didn’t know this man. Nor had he been to Rome.

“Had no idea She’d given humans the ability to make the real thing. Always thought that was a joke.”

This was deliberate, Aziraphale realized despite his best attempts to not realize anything. Crowley was deliberately trying to rile him up, the foul fiend.

“Enough babbling. Kill them both,” Mr. Glozier flippantly decided, reminding Aziraphale he even existed. Oh, right. Nazis, yes. And a gun. Couldn’t forget the gun.

“In about a minute, a German bomber will release a bomb that will land right here.” Crowley pointed at the floor, feet still very much bouncing, but Aziraphale suddenly believed the insanity. “If you all run away very _very_ fast, you might not die. You won’t enjoy dying, _definitely_ won’t enjoy what comes after.” And Aziraphale believed that too. Nazis, he thought, he _knew_ , weren’t going to Heaven.

“You expect us to believe that?” Mr. Glozier asked and Aziraphale nearly said, “yes,” but, “The bombs tonight will fall on the East End.”

“Yes.” Crowley leaned against a pew, one foot off the ground and leg crossed with the other at the knee as he swayed. Aziraphale wondered if he could grab his books before the bomb landed. “It would take a last-minute demonic intervention to throw them off course, yes.” He threw his hands up and started to bounce down the aisle, clearly losing patience. “You’re all wasting your valuable running-away time!” he said loudly, then looked meaningfully in Aziraphale’s direction. “And if, uh, in thirty seconds, a bomb does land here, it would take a _real_ miracle for my friend and I to survive it.”

Oh, good Lord. “A- a real miracle?”

“Believe in them, angel?”

“Well- I- We are in a church.” A real miracle. For him and for Crowley. Crowley and his bouncing, burning feet, trying so hard- He always tried so hard, didn’t he? Something started to well up inside him. Maybe, maybe, maybe it was a miracle.

“Kill them,” Mr. Harmony insisted, still managing to sound very blasé about the whole situation. “They are very irritating.”

Crowley’s fingers pointed skyward and the world around them began to shake. Aziraphale forgot about his books, forgot about everything but the way Crowley looked in that moment wherein he put his faith wholly in Aziraphale. But he couldn’t think about what he was doing, what he was feeling. There were no thoughts beyond ensuring this ridiculous creature with his terrible ideas survived. There was only him and Crowley as a bomb fell onto the church, the shock of it somehow unfelt when long arms wrapped around him to seek that protection or to offer comfort, but Aziraphale realized he’d moved first. His arms were around Crowley’s neck. Their faces were very close. The church fell to pieces around them, crushing foolish Nazis who did not enjoy dying and would not enjoy what came next.

Aziraphale didn’t think about what was happening or how or even why. He just accepted it with blind faith and pulled Crowley’s mouth down to meet his. It was more earth-shattering than the bomb, the power rocketing through Aziraphale. It was familiar, but brand new. No oysters or ancient wines, no coating of a shared breakfast, it was all Crowley: smoke and stardust and warm flames and something crisp like a six thousand year old apple.

He moaned, lifting up to chase more, to cling tighter and take, take, _take_ while the ground around them slowly stopped shuddering. Eventually, Aziraphale did too. He broke the kiss with a small gasp, but didn’t go far. He was terrified that if he did, Crowley would slither away again. Again and again and again, the ache of it all Aziraphale could feel for a painful moment before realizing Crowley wasn’t stepping away. He was pressing closer, holding tighter, and Aziraphale realized that the ache was shared.

He didn’t know how he knew, but they _were_ in a church. Er... He cast a quick glance about them. They had been in a church. The only thing which appeared to still be standing besides them was the great eagle statue that had been by the altar. Something told him not to ask questions, not to find the words to explain, but to just have faith.

 _Be not afraid_.

“That was very kind of you,” he whispered.

“Shut up.”

“No, it was.” Aziraphale stroked his back and shivered. “Don’t use the words for what just happened.”

“What?”

“Our words. Don’t use them.” Crowley eased back, staring at him, something in Aziraphale’s eyes making his breath catch. Aziraphale lifted his hands to Crowley’s wrists when those long fingers found his cheeks, touch gentle as if Aziraphale might break. And maybe he would. He didn’t want to, but he thought he might. This was precarious ground, and he didn’t mean the ruined church. “Our words, Crowley, promise me.”

“I won’t. Swear.”

“Oh. Oh, good.” He risked stepping away, the pair of them going still for a few seconds, just gazing at one another and waiting for something Aziraphale didn’t dare think too deeply on. Instead, he reached off to the side and plucked his hat off an ashen piece of former wall. He brushed it off carefully while Crowley took a moment to clean his sunglasses. The glint of gold in his eyes made Aziraphale’s heart swell. “We don’t have much time, darling. I- Oh!” he gasped suddenly and Crowley snapped his head up.

Aziraphale barely noticed him, eyes wide as the true tragedy of the evening washed over him. “Oh, the books! Ohh, I forgot _all_ the books.” It had taken so much work to get them, but now, “Oh, they’ll all be blown to-”

Crowley grunted, stopping Aziraphale mid-stream. Mr. Hozier’s hand was jutting out from the rubble and, still clasped in it, was the undamaged bag of books. Crowley handed it to him, lingering, their fingers brushing over the handle, and tears threatened to well up in Aziraphale’s eyes.

“One of our words.” Then he let go and stepped away. “Lift home?” he asked casually, striding across the rubble, and Aziraphale could only stare after him in quiet awe. Their kiss had been like a bomb. The love, however... Oh, the love was indescribable. 

He followed after Crowley, ready to say it, ready to share all that was in his heart while he still had time, but the sight of the vehicle made him pause. The distraction of it made the whispering threats tingling over his skin halt. “What the devil is this?” he asked suspiciously and Crowley’s delighted, cackling laugh felt much better than everything else.

“It’s a car.”

“Yes, I _see_ that it’s a car, you wily serpent. Did you steal it?”

“No! I bought - _actually bought_[67] \- the Bentley from new in 1933. Straight off the line, and it’s one of a kind.” He opened the passenger door, tipping his head. “Come on, Aziraphale. Haven’t had a passenger yet.”

“That only makes me nervous. You know the streets are wretched right now.”

“Oh, that doesn’t stop this thing. Clever machine.”

“Wicked driver,” Aziraphale shot back, quite holier-than-thou in tone to keep Crowley’s smile intact, then he slid into the seat and held the bag of books in his lap whilst Crowley crossed in front of the automobile to get behind the wheel. There were complicated gear mechanisms and all sorts of things Aziraphale didn’t recognize, but Crowley only pushed his foot against the accelerator and they were moving forward.[68]

Aziraphale studied him, unable to look away as they traveled across ruined streets as if they were still properly paved. His hands moved deftly over the wheel, barely having to adjust it to make the car move. “It would be nice if these things had music.”

And suddenly the vehicle had speakers, something that hadn’t been created yet playing from them as if the Bentley had been waiting longer than a fortnight to croon. Crowley blinked at it. It was a far cry from the music of the era, the instruments unfamiliar and the voice as yet unplaceable. Neither of them said another word on the way to Soho. Otherwise, Aziraphale might do something foolish and ask how Crowley knew how to find the bookshop, and Crowley would have to come up with a clever lie.

Best to avoid the whole thing.

Though it was getting harder. All the quiet and the unusual music gave Aziraphale far too much space to _think_ and the thinking was dangerous. 

“How did you know where I was?” he asked to distract himself.

Crowley swallowed, fingers shifting over the wheel. “I always know.”

“And yet you don't always come. Very rarely, in fact.”

“I've always been around. I just...”

He just hid. He tucked himself into the shadows of Aziraphale’s lives and made them both suffer. “Do your feet hurt?” 

“That even a question?” Crowley slanted him a look. Aziraphale could feel it through the sunglasses, and it made him smile. 

“A just punishment, I think, for being so foolish for so long.”

“Ngk.” Crowley pressed his lips together as they pulled up to the kerb across from the bookshop. He didn't look at it.

That just wouldn’t do. “Come inside.”

“Aziraphale-”

“I don't have much time left, and I don't want to be alone. Please come inside.”

“Just reset. Reset and forget again.”

“How very dare you. I'll stay here,” Aziraphale decided, shifting in his seat as if to get more comfortable. The edge of desperation in Crowley's tone made him ache right to his very soul, but it was too big to forget and he didn’t want to anyway. He didn’t want to forget Crowley risking consecrated ground for him and rescuing his books and being his utterly wicked, wonderful self.

Crowley smacked the steering wheel twice, a rude thing to do to the poor car. It was doing its best. Aziraphale reached out and patted the dashboard gently. But then the passenger door was open, the driver side following before Aziraphale could protest, and Crowley was storming around the front of the Bentley. His offered hand was easy to take, Aziraphale lacing their fingers even though it caused a pained expression to ripple across Crowley's features. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale whispered, leading him to the steps and inside. The memory of their last time together wasn't a happy one for either of them, the confusion over his frantic escape painful even when Aziraphale wasn't so confused. 

“Don’t say that. If my lot knew I’d rescued an... _you_ , there’d be-” Aziraphale took Crowley's wrists,[69] lifting them until his palms could cup his cheeks, the fingers flexing helplessly against his skin, and his protests died. Aziraphale watched his lips wobble, so nuzzled gently into the touch to soothe them both. “Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered, “why are you doing this to me?” 

“Did you get my letter?” he wondered, both answering and ignoring Crowley’s question. The de- The _man_ trembled, right down to his fingertips. Aziraphale stepped closer, releasing a soft, shaky sigh. “Janthony.”

“Do what?”

“For the J.” Aziraphale let his wrists go to wind his arms about his neck, holding him close as they’d done in the church ruins. “Anthony Janthony.”

He let out a bark of a laugh, more shocked by the ridiculousness than actually finding the humor in it. At least at first, it seemed, laughter changing from startled to genuine whilst his hands fell to Aziraphale’s waist to first grip then around to hold. To bask, Aziraphale hoped, like a proper snake should do when finding some warmth. “Absolutely not. You’re the most ridiculous an- thing.”

“Come up with a better idea then.”

“John,” he said on the spot.

“Terribly dull, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely. Wretched.[70] Can’t believe I said it.” Crowley nuzzled his brow against Aziraphale’s, finally fully relaxing into the hold as if it was the only place he wanted to be. 

It was, to be perfectly honest, the only place Aziraphale wanted him to be too. “I suppose we’ll see if you have time to think of something better before next time. Otherwise, I’m afraid Janthony will have to stay.”

“You’re awful, you know. It’s never going to be Janthony.”

“Well, you’re the silly serpent who insisted on giving yourself a middle initial without a backup plan, dearest.” They shared a smile, their first and easiest in more than a century. “Those half-witted Nazi spies got the better of me, didn’t they? Dreadful. Can’t imagine the humiliation of explaining that to anyone.”

“No one could ever get the better of you, an...” He paused, seeming to consider something for a few moments, and then called him “Dove.”

 _Dove_. Something fluttered in Aziraphale’s chest. Not what he was used to, certainly, but something special to hold in his heart. A way to still call him something sweet. “Oh,” he sighed. How awful of him to think he’d ever spent a single day as anything less than Crowley’s. Even when they were apart. “Can I-?” He lifted a hand to Crowley’s hat and he tipped his head, allowing Aziraphale to remove it and study the short style. Perfectly in line with the time, as expected, and it made him smile. A little too neat, perhaps, but that was also in style. “I think it would look better a bit ruffled. Just some drama. That would suit you, I think. You are awfully dramatic.”

“ _Dramatic_? Why ever would you insinuate such a thing?”

“It was hardly an insinuation,” he huffed, pausing with his fingers on an arm of dark sunglasses. Another question, answered with a hint of a nod. Oh, it had been such a long time since he’d been given the gift of those eyes. His wily serpent. “You know, besides your hair, I think this may be my favorite look for you. Not to discount Rome, of course; it was nice to be more in fashion than you for once. However much I liked the tight curls.”

Crowley didn’t blush, but Azirapale knew it was a near thing. It was endearing and perfect and so unlike any demon-

“Oh,” he breathed again, but this time there was despair in it. He’d gone and done it. Crowley’s grip tightened. “I’m sorry, darling. You got my letter. You know what I want.”

“You’ll- I can’t let you-”

“I won’t Fall. I won’t Fall, I promise you. There’s no sin in love, Crowley. My foolish demon.”

“ _Angel_ ,” he breathed, choked, hurt.

Oh, they both hurt. So very much. He let go of the pride and the nerves that had kept him from asking in 1800 because putting it in a letter had hardly been strong enough. “Love me, dearest. It isn’t Her that’s doing this. I won’t Fall, but I can’t stand- So many lonely lives, you can’t imagine- Oh, but you can. You know. You’ve been here so long. Be with me in the next one. It's so selfish of me to even ask, I know, but I can’t bear another without you. Please, Crowley, darling-”

The last thing he felt was firm lips on his, cutting off his pleas. The last thing he heard was a hissed answer, a promise Crowley might actually be able to keep for once. Aziraphale dearly hoped he did.

His hope burned so bright that the shock of Heaven’s cold didn’t completely steal the warmth being bundled in a demon’s arms had left behind. He turned, his white suit the blank armor of a discorporated angel. He was almost used to wearing it, almost used to the pitying or derisive looks he’d receive from his fellows, almost used to being good enough in only Her eyes.

And, of course, in Crowley’s. Always in Crowley’s.

He walked quickly. Heaven was large and he didn’t know if he’d beat Crowley to the main entrance. He’d tried this before, dozens upon dozens of times now, but was always waylaid. They weren’t expecting his return, though, and he didn’t think Crowley would wait long. There were three Nazi spies he had to be a proper demon to. Well, as proper as he’d ever be able to bring himself. They’d be passed onto someone else soon enough, Aziraphale was sure.

There were parts of the enormous office where his footfalls echoed more severely than others, parts of this plane which had once been occupied by the Fallen. Aziraphale had found Crowley’s old locker once, bored and utterly bereft in his wanderings, and he’d delighted in it all. The ridiculous hard hat and tool belt he’d learned from Raphael were standard uniform for the starmakers. The blueprints with vibrant red markings and notes in Crowley’s familiar handwriting - by Sirius, he’d written “make as bright as the full moon, show that tosser Gabriel why imagination isn’t a bad word.”

If Aziraphale could bring anything out of Heaven, it would be those blueprints. The official maps of the stars and the unofficial, independently done rearrangements. The little notes, riddled with the names of angels Aziraphale both knew and didn’t and their schedules and, therefore, the best times for him to sneak away and move stars about and draw pictures. Crowley had always loved art.

How embarrassed he would be, Aziraphale thought fondly, if he were ever called the first artist among Her creations. Or would the reminder of his Heavenly achievements only upset him? Aziraphale wasn’t sure, but it was hardly a thing he could ask. It had been two thousand years since he’d found the old locker and he’d never once had an opportunity to speak to Crowley as an angel. Not _really_ , not until that night. It was endlessly frustrating and unbearably infuriating. It was almost as bad as the loneliness. 

He heard the front door open as he reached the top of the escalator, only just holding back a shout. Whatever noise he did make caught Crowley’s attention regardless and he looked up, still in his suit and fedora and with the faintest smudges of a bombed church clinging to the fabric. Aziraphale imagined a church bombing would look very good on his official reports, glad that at least one of them had freedom. Glad it was Crowley with all his beautiful imagination and his love of humanity. Oh, yes, he was so glad his unusual demon was so completely of Earth.

They couldn’t do anything more than gaze at one another. Crowley would end up smote before he made it halfway up the escalator and Aziraphale would turn into a filmy shadow of himself before he made it halfway down. They couldn’t talk. But what Aziraphale could do was reach behind him. His wings unfurled, unkempt but still a sparkling white, and he carefully extracted one of his longer feathers. It wasn’t unlike plucking out a hair. An eyebrow hair, specifically, sharp and painful but ultimately harmless. Ultimately vital. An angel’s gift, a way to link them. One could always find what one loved, but it never hurt to have extra insurance. 

He blew it down to Crowley like a kiss, watching it catch the light of Heaven, then of Earth as it flitted and floated its way into a demon’s hand. Crowley ran his fingers over it, and carefully tucked it in his inner breast pocket where it would be safely nestled against his heart. Then he looked up, tipped his hat, and Aziraphale smiled. Though it would likely be a good fifty years until they saw one another again, he was hopeful that this next life wouldn’t hurt him too badly. It was a wretched, painful thing to ask him to be close. To be human. To know what they were and have to be the one to bear the burden of secrecy.

Really, if it ended up being too much, he’d completely understand. It would hurt, but he would understand. Anything was always better than the lives which passed with nothing.

\----

**_1967  
_** **_Soho, London_ **

Getting Hellfire had been easy. A quick saunter vaguely downwards with a good, sturdy container - with a _lid_ , mind - and he’d been able to scoop some right up. Hastur had caught him at it, the frog atop his head croaking with the same dim curiosity that rippled over the human-ish face. Some demons had broken a little harder than others in the Fall, brains rattling and animals sought as much to seal wounds as to claim new identities. Hastur, Duke of Hell, had been rattled more than most.

“You’ve never taken Hellfire before,” he realized, watching flickering flames seep into the slender black thermos Crowley had chosen for the job. “Finally going to do something about that angel, eh?”

Oh, he was going to do something about his angel. Nothing involving Hellfire if it could be at all helped, but if it wasn’t _Her_ causing Aziraphale’s reincarnations...

Well. He was a demon, after all. Burning an Archangel or two to ash wasn’t exactly a stretch. So if they came for them during the next life, he could protect Aziraphale at least. And then maybe he’d be able to exist on Earth as he deserved. Without restrictions.

But if demons came for them, if _he_ did something to slip up and betray the fact that he was with an angel, he’d need a different sort of protection. If churches always had fonts of holy water just laying about, ready for the taking, he’d just have to get some. It wasn’t as if he could just ask Aziraphale for some insurance in case things went pear-shaped. And so many things could go pear-shaped if he really did as Aziraphale had asked.

_Love me, dearest._

He’d done nothing less for nearly six thousand years, so that was easy. That was constant. Being with him, though? That needed plans and preparations. It needed groundwork and extra scheming in the political scene because, by Satan, God, or Somebody, he wasn’t going to love him in the shadows.

So, for once, instead of sleeping through most of Aziraphale’s discorporation, Crowley worked. The Americans were all stirred up in their anti-war protestations and their racial inequality, so it had been easy to add in some free love mentality. Some peace and goodwill to tangle with all the vitriol and encourage change from two different directions. The States had more influence than he’d ever imagined they would when they’d just been a handful of colonies, and they didn’t always use it for good. He needed this to be for good.

In England, he did the same. Other countries would take even more work and it was difficult to do alone, so he spent a few years skipping across the globe to spread his brand of mischief to have something to report on and Aziraphale’s brand of goodwill and cheer just to encourage progress. In his way, though, he ultimately left them with choice as he traveled so some places would find equality at a slower pace than others. The USSR was such a fucking mess,[71] he didn’t know who to influence towards what so took a break in 1967 to focus on supplies instead of the political changes.

He had a flat in Mayfair now, the Hellfire in a safe behind his enormous box of a television set. There was another safe behind a Mona Lisa sketch he’d bartered off of da Vinci in the 1500s and he had plans to store the holy water there. Better all around to keep the deadly weapons at his spare place instead of at the bookshop. Most of his nights were spent there now that he was back in London, and this one wasn’t going to be an exception. He couldn’t imagine Aziraphale would be pleased by how much decadence and sin had taken up their little corner of Soho, but Crowley wasn’t doing much to combat it at the moment. He was hoping it would develop into a safe gay space from where it was now, and sometimes the best way to ensure that was to let things happen naturally. All this neon would dim someday.

He stepped out of The Dirty Donkey pub and secret gambling den after a meeting involving some sin and adjusted the cuff of his jacket sleeve. Suits were on their last gasping breaths, but he was enjoying the mod style. Maybe not all the wild clashing colors - not for himself - but he could appreciate them in the world. And thankfully black _never_ went out of style, no matter that it wasn’t psychedelic. It was still _cool_.

“Mr. Crowley?” He stopped at the possibly Scottish, but possibly at least eight other places accent and turned. “Might I have a moment of your time?”

“Yes,” he said slowly, trying to recall the bloke’s name. He was supposed to be Crowley’s locksmith in the church heist he had planned, and he’d just briefed him, an acrobat, and some muscle on the plan. Well, most of the plan. He hadn’t figured out what to have them steal besides holy water and had to make it worth all the pounds he was throwing at each of them. These jobs were just the sort of thing which had made his name famous amongst the more wicked pockets of the world in the thirties and forties. It had been fun, being a crime boss. Nobody had even really gotten hurt, a far cry from the shit Hell had cooked up in the States during the twenties. His punishment for letting Prohibition happen had been, ah, _lengthy_.

“Lance Corporal Shadwell,” he finally remembered, sauntering a few steps closer to him. Shabby military-esque coat, nice curl to the hair, peculiar questions about nipples and witchcraft. Memorable and odd, just the sort of human Crowley usually liked. “What are you a lance corporal in? You don’t look like an army man.”

Shadwell chuckled, gesturing with his small cigarette. It didn’t smell like tobacco, but Crowley certainly didn’t judge. It was just a plant. “Well, that is precisely the matter upon which I planned to talk to you. You might remember earlier this evening, I asked a rather pointed question about witchcraft?”

“Mm, yes,” he shrugged.

“Well, I am a proud member of an enormous organisation. Vast.” He glanced over his shoulder and took a step closer, voice lowering. “A secret army that battles the forces of witchery.”

Ah. Well. Battling witchery was more an angel’s territory, not that Aziraphale had ever once participated in witch hunts during his lives. He’d been rather vocally against them, really, sometimes to his detriment. “How nice for you.”

“The Witchfinder Army. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

“Wh- no. What? I thought you said it was secret.”

“Well, you never know when such a gentleman such as yourself might... have need of such an organisation. A man with hundreds of pounds to throw around. If you need us, the Witchfinder Army are here for you.”

“A whole army?” That could be fun.

“Think it over,” young Shadwell urged, stepping back. “You know where to find me.” 

That he did. A whole army. Hm. Satisfied with the whole situation and confident that the church heist would go as planned, Crowley sauntered across the street and watched some young lady shoot across the road on a bright blue Lambretta.[72] All sorts found their way to Soho, it seemed.

He passed the Bentley, parked against the kerb and unseen and untouched by anyone who walked or drove by. He gave the car a light stroke as he passed, glancing at the James Bond bullet-hole-in-the-window transfers he’d gotten in exchange for a fill-up of petrol recently. He rather fancied the devil-may-care look they gave the car, and if they looked a little more real on his window than on anyone else’s vehicle, well, he expected them to.

Instead of slipping into the driver’s seat as he was want to do, Crowley kept walking. The bookshop only opened for him since there wasn’t an angel around to open it to the public and most people nowadays just thought it was haunted. Or infested with snakes. Well, _snake_. But he liked the window placement on bright days, when the sun’s warm rays beat down. He shouldn’t be blamed for wanting to coil up and soak in all the heat for his scales, particularly in the colder months. The rumours even kept the bloody mob at bay, which was the only real shame. He’d love to give a mobster or two a _real_ scare. It’d help alleviate some of the tension, for a start.

Maybe after he got his holy water, he’d throw a dart at a map and go cause some mischief wherever it landed.

He mounted the steps, no one noticing the dark-haired and darker-clothed man slip into the haunted bookshop. No one except the person already inside, anyway. A light flicked on and Crowley jumped a good foot, startled hiss escaping when his back slammed into the door.

“Gosh,” an aging priest said with Aziraphale’s voice. “I certainly wasn’t expecting that sort of a reaction.”

* * *

* * *

### Footnotes

62. He also had to stop himself from dancing in place or wiggling too excessively, but it was hard to be an excited angel.↩

63. The uncle was still relatively unknown. Only the initials A.C. had been on the letter, but no one had questioned this except for Aziraphale. But then, well, being left an entire bookshop just filled with well-loved first editions was too good to be questioned for long.↩

64. A certain demon’s interference had been the cause of that. Heaven may have been just fine - or even oblivious to - an angel’s name floating about in the British draft, but Crowley sure as Hell hadn’t been.↩

65. Hey, meta blogs, how come no one ever talks about the last time Aziraphale tried to have an “our side” outside of Heaven? Turns out the other person was bad all along. Hm. Weird that he’d be reluctant to try again.↩

66. Or lovely or dashing or even debonair or - Oh, perhaps he should stop.↩

67. The last thing he’d paid actual money for had been a sketch of the Mona Lisa. He’d haggled over the price and everything. For the Bentley, he’d taken one look and had known that was the car for him. It was the same as when Aziraphale had looked at a corner of Soho in 1800 and sighed, stopping Crowley with a touch of the arm. _That looks just right._↩

68. When purchasing the Bentley, Crowley had ignored absolutely everything the helpful salesman had said about how to drive beyond, “this pedal is for go and this one’s for stop.” Everything else had gone right over his head.↩

69. The precious books were dropped, but instead of falling to the floor, they settled neatly on a nearby desk.↩

70. Sorry, David. Except we all know it’s Michael who reads fic, so please keep it on the DL, Michael.↩

71. Maybe if he’d been paying better attention at the end of WWII, things would’ve been better up there but he’d spent four solid years drunk after seeing the true depths of Nazi cruelty. And he’d started to think humans couldn’t surprise him anymore.↩

72. One day she’d live in a different part of London, provide certain companionship for discerning gentlemens, and draw the veil every Thursday. For now, she’s just enjoying some fun.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at [SylWritesStuff](https://sylwritesstuff.tumblr.com/) and my lovely beta at [skimmingmilk](https://skimmingmilk.tumblr.com/).
> 
> See you Wednesday :D


	7. I'm Not Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A priest, an angel, and a demon walk into a bookshop. Then Heaven gets some good(?) news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This ch song](https://open.spotify.com/track/44HPGN2kbcp9pTNtA6IZct?si=SSyfpIWyQS6mzXctBi9gpg)
> 
> Thank you, [SkimmingTheSurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface), for your editing prowess 😇
> 
> Also, I'd like it to be known that I don't headcanon Crowley as being Raphael before the Fall. You'll get to see my version of Raphael this chapter 💖
> 
> cw: Just a touch of fatshaming. Gabriel, of course.

_As a man,  
_ _casting off worn out garments taketh new ones,  
_ _so the dweller in the body,  
_ _entereth into ones that are new._

― Epictetus

* * *

**_1967  
_** **_Soho, London_ **

“What the bloody _fuck_?”

The priest’s lips pursed. “I suppose I should’ve expected that one.”

Crowley gave him a wide berth, collapsing onto an armchair. The priest with Aziraphale’s voice sat primly on the edge of a different chair, hands folded and posture too straight for an old man, but exactly like Aziraphale. Crowley scrubbed a hand over his face. “What in the _Hell_ is happening? Are you- are you _possessing_ someone? You’re an _angel_. Only demons do the whole... possession thing.”

“Have you?”

Crowley shook his head, expression pained. “Mnnblehhh. I like my corporation and possession can get... messy.”

“Ah. Well, so far I’m not having any difficulties. He’s being quite lovely. He’s also asleep, so you’ll have to bundle him up in one of those taxis and send him home after all this.”

“Asleep.” Crowley stared, trying to piece together what he could remember about the possession seminars in Hell. There had been a lot of talk of projectile vomiting and making heads turn unnaturally and taunting of people, so he hadn’t listened much. “That still doesn’t explain-” He waved a hand, gesture vaguely encompassing all of the possessed human.

“Well, I got to thinking. You know how I am, dearest.” Crowley grunted. He knew very well. “And I was thinking, well, that demons were angels once. We do come from the same stock. And so, I thought, why _can’t_ I possess a human? A willing one, of course. I would never take advantage.”

“Never,” Crowley echoed dully, still dazed. “So you’ve never thought-”

“Heavens, no!” This was worse, Crowley decided, than watching Aziraphale “grow up.” At least with that corporation, he could see the man Aziraphale would eventually resemble. This was just... incredibly wrong. “Of course I’ve never _thought_ to do this before,” Aziraphale continued as if Crowley wasn’t having a mental breakdown. “I wasn’t going to at all, but then I heard you speaking to that Julian fellow-”[73]

“ _Julian_?” How the actual Hell, Heaven, and Earth did Aziraphale know about _Julian_? 

“Yes, the one who was attempting to convince you to purchase that garish paisley jacket. I see you just miracled yourself one in black.”

“Psychedelic black,” he replied, watching lips that weren’t Aziraphale’s curve.

“Anyway, you were speaking to him sotto voce about setting up your little, ah, caper, and I have seen your notes-”

“You’ve _seen_ my notes?”

“Well. I still have to _guard_ the Earth, Crowley. And if, perhaps, I narrow my field of view now and again to, say, one particular creature... Oh, darling, please don’t make your adorable noises when I’m trying to talk. It’s very distracting.”

“ _Adorable_ ,” he echoed, treacherous heart still beating a bloody samba in his chest and now trying to twist in on itself. He couldn’t be terrified, confused, and adoring all at once. He physically could not tolerate all of it together. “Okay. Okay. Okay.” There was a pause. “Okay. You-” He tried a deep breath. “Okay.”

“That’s really not better than the noises,” Aziraphale hummed and Crowley made one that sounded like a cat and a dog fighting a snake at the bottom of an echoing well. The body Aziraphale was borrowing beamed. “Doesn’t that hurt your vocal chords or is it just...?” He waved a hand.

Crowley made another aborted attempt at a sound, then tipped back in the chair and closed his eyes. Then he changed his mind, pulled off his sunglasses, and threw an arm dramatically over his eyes. Much better without the unusual visual. He could just... pretend his angel was there. Like this was all normal.

This was so _fucking_ not normal.

“Are you finished with your dramatics? Unfortunately, I don’t have all night. If they discover I’m gone-”

Crowley’s shoulders tensed. “Talk.”

“Yes. Your caper. Crowley, it’s too dangerous.”

“Oh, for fuck’s-”

“Holy water,” Aziraphale interrupted, voice rising, “won’t just kill your body. It will destroy you completely.”

“I _know_.”

“And I know you already have Hellfire, which I do not approve of.”

“You won’t even _know_ ,” he replied, unable to help the slip of bitterness. It wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault, but it was hard not to be annoyed at the whole situation. “If the Archangels show up - any damn one of them, but especially that Gabriel twat - I’ll-”

“Not in our bookshop, Crowley.”

The arm fell from his eyes so he could blink at the ceiling. “I... wot?”

“Hellfire is extremely dangerous, and I won’t have you risking our books. They’re irreplaceable.”

“Are you... condoning murder right now?”

He could almost _see_ Aziraphale straighten his already straight spine, heard it in the rustling clothes. “Absolutely _not_. I am an angel, and would never suggest you do such a thing. Nor will I support it. But I understand that a demon will do... what a demon will do.”

“Toeing the line, angel.”

“I have been ‘toeing the line’ for six thousand years now. Frankly, I’ve got no idea where the line even is anymore. It’s more... like a tightrope. Sometimes-” He paused, drawing a shaky breath before whispering, “Sometimes I don’t know why more haven’t Fallen.”

His arm fell away and he sat up sharply. “Don’t do that. Don’t ask questions like that, and especially don’t ask them out loud. You’ll slip right off that tightrope, and I’m trying-”

“I _know_ , dearest. I know what you’ve been trying to do. I understand.”

“Least one of us does,” Crowley murmured, and Aziraphale sighed gustily.

“The point I am trying to make is that holy water is excessively... detrimental to you. I can’t have you risking your life, so I... I took on some light prayer duty, you see. It's so disheartening to realize just how few angels actually care about the humans on Earth. It's so easy to convince some of them to just let a Principality take over when I'm dreadfully bored or missing you or...” 

Missing him. Crowley fell back, arm over his eyes, and wheezed, making Aziraphale jump and the borrowed hands flutter. 

“Oh, ah, anyway, the Father here was asking for a few little harmless things regarding his health, so... well... He agreed to a trade on the condition I allow him to sleep first. And temporarily on my end, of course. I would never think to-” Crowley peeked at him, watched him look at the man’s hand and grimace. His own lips quirked. “No, I would definitely never think to keep this. But I have eased his health concerns, elongated his life in the process. I may end up in a spot of trouble for the frivolous miracles, but it’s hardly worth mentioning. He’s a good man.”

“Ehhh, debatable. He’s Catholic.”

“Oh, shush. You’d say that whatever faith he was.”

He grinned, quick and wicked. “Not if he was a Satanist.”

“If I didn’t care so much for you, Crowley, I swear. You wily thing.” Aziraphale sighed gustily. “Now about this ridiculous heist business-” 

“Look, I _know_ holy water is dangerous. I get it. Why do you think I’m making a handful of well-trained humans do it?”

“And if they bring it to you when it isn’t properly sealed?”

“I’ll wear gloves.”

“ _Crowley_.”

“ _Aziraphale_ ,” he snapped in the same snooty tone.

And then he heard something clunk against the desk. Crowley’s head bobbed like a marionette as he looked and saw a tartan thermos on its surface. Aziraphale’s tartan. “As much as I detest this, I won’t have you risking your life. You want an insurance policy, here. Now you can call off the robbery.”

Crowley sat up straighter himself, staring at the thermos. “Angel-”

“Don’t go unscrewing the cap,” Aziraphale instructed, “and do be careful getting it back to Mayfair. None of your speed-demon antics. You know Hellish miracles don’t work on holy water or their containers.”

Aziraphale had possessed a human to bring him holy water. _Aziraphale_ _had possessed a human to bring him holy water_. “It’s the real thing?”

“The holiest.”

Crowley stared at it, then at eyes that weren't Aziraphale's. “Angel...”

“If you go getting yourself hurt, I'll never forgive you.”

“Unforgivable's in the job description,” he replied flippantly, but it hung in the air. It lingered, awkward and unpleasant for them both until Crowley sighed. “I'll be careful, dove. You haven't even come back yet, and I promised.”

That hung heavier, though Crowley didn't know why until Aziraphale whispered, “You can take it back.”

He physically recoiled. “No.”

“You _can_. It was a wretched moment to make you promise something so- It was so selfish of me to ask, and-” 

“You know how I feel about you,” Crowley interrupted, so softly he didn't know how Aziraphale heard. But his breath hitched and hands that weren't his fluttered in a way that was so familiar, it cracked Crowley's already battered heart. “It's just as selfish of me to say yes, isn't it? I'll know everything and you won't. Most anybody would think I'm taking advantage of _you_.”

He'd certainly thought that, unable to reconcile the guilt of it every single time they had managed to be together. To have full knowledge of their history, to use it to play on heartstrings. Like tricking him into a relationship. He was still struggling with it, reminding himself that he was a demon and lying was to be expected not helping in the slightest. It was easier to remember the desperate plea in Aziraphale's tone, the needy way he'd asked, the heartbreak in having to be alone. It hurt, but it was a motivating sort of pain. 

“Oh, dearest...” Aziraphale murmured. “At least know I've been yours across all this time. There's never been another.”

“Never?” he asked lightly, teasingly, pretending his throat wasn't as dry as it was. “Thought for sure you and that Oscar Wilde bloke...”

“Oh, well, ah, hm. There may have been a... a _flirtation_.”

“Ngk.”

Looking far too pleased with himself, Aziraphale waved a hand. “You silly serpent. He was witty and I enjoyed his books. It was nothing more.”

“And the gentlemen's club? Where you learned the gavotte?” 

Aziraphale giggled, cheeks that weren't his as rosy as can be and eyes that weren't his twinkling away. “Saw that, did you?” 

“Almost every day. You were...” Effervescent. So radiant with joy, his halo was liable to burst. He’d loved the peasant-created French kissing dance to absolute bits, and Crowley had loved watching him from his little corner of the shadows. “Humiliating.”

“It was _fun_. I've missed patches of human history I wish I could've enjoyed to their fullest, but I've had more enjoyment than not. Every time a life ends, I have to go through it all and backdate reports, and I know I typically enjoy myself. But I also feel...” Aziraphale patted over the human heart, sighing quietly. “You know how I feel. You've had fun too, I know, but you feel it too.”

Alone. Alone and aching and desperate for something just out of reach. 

Crowley wasn’t ready to say that. “Got a timeline for me, by chance? Fashion you a new corporation yet?” 

Aziraphale pressed the lips together. “The Quartermaster has an entire _set_ of corporations for me. He thinks I'm quite the clumsy wretch. A failure and an affront to all of my training.”

“What do you write in your reports? On how you're discorporated?” 

“I _sign_ the report Uriel hands me - it's normally her, after all - and it always says _you_ did it.”

“ _Me_?”

“Oh, Heaven is... They're quite terrified of the great demon Crowley. The only commendable thing about me seems to be how... how _brave_ I am for continuing to come to Earth, knowing you'll be here. Just waiting for a chance to slaughter me in some great battle yet again.”

He sounded bitter and angry about it, so it wasn't the time to laugh. 

Crowley laughed. He laughed and laughed, Aziraphale’s expression growing more sour by the cackle until he gasped out, “Hell's terrified of _you_.”

The upset flickered to confusion. “Pardon?” 

“My reports.” Crowley calmed enough to grin at him. “You've thwarted quite a bit of truly vile evil, y'know. Demons barely pop up here for fear of running into you.”

Confusion faded, a smile tugging at Aziraphale until he, too, started to laugh. Coming out of the wrong body or not, it was good to see. It was good to do. 

It was good to just be an angel and a demon, able to laugh at the idiosyncrasies of their respective head offices when everything else about each seemed too heavy and oppressive most of the time. It wasn't _just_ good, though, not that blank, boring thing Heaven and Eden had been. This was a post-Apple good, the sort that had layers of bad things and layers of good things, the sort where good came out on top only in a moment and could be gone in the next. 

Would be, because Aziraphale rose a few minutes later and brushed imaginary dust off the priest's clothes. “I think I've stayed too long.”

“We'll have to get drinks next time,” Crowley tossed out. Like a joke. 

Aziraphale smiled as if it had been, but the eyes weren't twinkling. “Jolly good. I'll just step outside, then. You'll ensure a taxi for him?” 

“Course, angel. What do you take me for?”

“A demon,” he replied haughtily, holier-than-thou, and that _was_ a joke. Crowley rewarded him with a grin. “Thank you for all of this, dearest. I'll see you... Well, as soon as can be. I'm sorry I can't say when you'll next see me. They've been very hush-hush this time around.”

Crowley nodded, long limbs rolling out of the chair so he could walk Aziraphale to the door and make sure the borrowed corporation didn't collapse before the taxi came. Probably smarter to grab him while asleep. No use trying to get a priest to understand why holy water was being brought to a _demon_. “Leave it to Heaven to have _secrets_.”

“Don't be terrible, darling. I have a plan, anyway, and full faith that it will work out. Now pip-pip. Mind how you go.” And he was gone, Crowley barely catching the human in time and entirely unable to ask what the plan was. 

Leave it to a bookworm to end on a cliffhanger. 

\----

 **_1969  
_** **_Heaven_ **

The world, anyone would agree, was a dangerous place. The Archangel Gabriel said as much to anyone who asked, anyone who commented on how peculiar it was that a Principality assigned to Earth for its entire existence would so consistently be discorporated. 

“Peculiar? Oh, no, I would hardly call Aziraphale peculiar. The world is a dangerous place and the demon known as Crowley is a-”

“A wily adversary.”

Gabriel hated when Aziraphale was around. At the mere mention of the demon, he’d practically trip over himself in his haste to heap compliments upon him. Calling him a wily adversary, extremely clever, exceptionally diabolical, sinfully sinuous, altogether tickety-boo, and a dozen other things that were really just too much. They’d told Aziraphale, and had been telling him for nearly six thousand years now, that he should play up just how wicked Crowley was, but he almost seemed to _enjoy_ it[74] and it wasn’t as if any of the Archangels involved in Aziraphale’s, er, unique punishment could tell him to tone it down in front of anyone.

Unfortunately, since 1601, Aziraphale nearly always had to have one of them around him. He’d started saying things to the other angels. Little defiant things, little confusing things about Earth compared to Heaven and how they should just _see_ the sunset over the ocean just once and how _breathtaking_ it was and how fascinatingly beautiful God’s creatures were, great and small. They weren’t _wrong_ things to say, but it had started a stir. A few times now, other angels had dipped their wings into the world just to see what it was all about.

Aziraphale, the cheerfully pleasant idiot, was inspiring _curiosity_. Things had not ended well in Heaven the last time that had happened. Was the crazy Principality trying to make them lose even _more_ Heavenly soldiers? Sandalphon had sniffed airily once and called it _treason_.

The Almighty had not agreed, judging by the presence of Aziraphale's intact halo, so Sandalphon didn’t say it again. Gabriel thought it again, though. Thought it again and again and again. He’d _been_ thinking it since Eden. They had Earth Observation files _proving_ that Aziraphale had given away his flaming sword without a thought. Without _any_ consideration for what that might mean. No one was privy to what his conversation with the Lord had entailed, but She had somehow been satisfied? So they’d left it alone.

They’d kept a closer eye on him, though, and Michael had seen instances wherein Aziraphale had spoken with the snake demon instead of smiting him then and there. No one was privy to what these chats were about either. The Earth Observation files had numerous flaws, and no one knew how to fix them. The entire angelic squad who had been in charge of creating it were in Hell and it would be of no use to ask them for help.

Useless, Gabriel thought to himself as he stared at the photographs from Aziraphale’s last Earthly stint. Again. He’d done this nearly thirty times in the twenty-eight years since Aziraphale’s last discorporation and, when asked how he’d died _this_ time, he’d defiantly announced that he was “another casualty in the Blitz.” He wasn’t supposed to be a casualty in _anything_. He was an angel. The only things they had from the files, though, were Aziraphale entering a church with a bundle of books, and then a pile of rubble when the next picture was snapped several months later. 

He swept the pile into a thin manilla folder and it disappeared into a filing cabinet somewhere or other when someone knocked on his door. It opened at a flick of his wrist, but he didn’t rise when he saw who was on the other side. Not until he saw who was with him. He was tall and broad, skin as dark as the earliest sky, smile as bright as the stars he'd been in charge of filling that darkness with.

“Raphael!” Gabriel greeted, smile broad as he reached his feet and walked around his desk to greet his fellow Archangel with a firm handshake. For the angel beside Raphael, his smile went tight at the corners and pinched his eyes just so. “Aziraphale.” 

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale replied like someone who thought he had the upper hand. He’d gotten exhausting to deal with in the last few centuries. Somehow, he’d managed to get the paperwork down from several decades to one or two years, and finding ways to keep him in Heaven longer was sapping their patience. 

“Their” being the only Archangels Gabriel trusted to help handle Aziraphale. Sandalphon, obviously, with his clever wordplay and cleverer ideas, had been essential. Michael and all their mysterious ways of obtaining information was indispensable. Uriel with her stubborn streak and single-minded alliance to the causes of Good, not to mention her quiet brutality, were unignorable. He needed all three of them to continue to run everything on the up-and-up, as they liked to say. 

He saw it as him climbing every mountain. Aziraphale and the problems he caused were a very big mountain, but he thought he was doing an admirable job scaling it. Even though telling any other angels was impossible. He couldn't expect them to understand why their Earth-assigned angel was... troubling. And why his pearly white wings were... also troubling. He especially couldn't expect that of Raphael. 

He swaggered in the same way he'd once swaggered across the stars, hopping job site to job site. He'd _mingled_ with the lesser angels, befriending many of them in those earliest of days. The Fall had hurt him in ways the other Archangels, Gabriel included, didn't understand. There was a pencil behind his ear, though he hadn’t been a building foreman since before said Fall. Gabriel thought it and the loosely knotted, flashy tie he wore were both a bit... over the top and unnecessary. What was wrong with gray and cream and white? The occasional splash of gold or, for Gabriel, lilac. Absolutely nothing. And yet Raphael insisted on wearing a tie that reflected the rainbow inherent to the cosmos, the colors constantly changing and thoroughly distracting.

It was almost as bad as his compassion for humanity. The Almighty had tasked him with healing after the Fall, and he’d taken to it with gusto. One would think he would’ve been the _most_ upset by Cain’s creation of murder, but when asked, he’d only said, “Cain will receive his just punishment downstairs.”

“And what about the angel, Aziraphale?”

“Mm, what did the Almighty think?”

“He... still has his Grace.”

“Well. Settles that, eh?”

And that had been that.

Or at least that should’ve been that. Why Aziraphale had first sought out the Archangel was anyone’s guess,[75] but he now had quite the unsuspecting ally. If it infuriated Gabriel, well, that was a very unangelic thing to feel and so he refused to acknowledge it. His smile pinched when it landed on Aziraphale and he refused to acknowledge that too. He was a bad angel, but the Almighty had yet to strip him of his Grace and that... Well, they’d gotten creative about that.

“Raphael, have a...” The Archangel dropped his enormous self down in a chair and Gabriel took a deep breath. “Yes, good. Make yourself at home.” He walked around his desk to return to his own seat. Raphael slouched a bit as if he still didn’t have a handle on propriety after six thousand years. First too used to being on construction sites, always getting his hands dirty with the lower angel tiers in the process. And now too used to watching humans. Gabriel folded his hands on his desk and addressed him first. “What can I do for you?”

“Actually, it’s for Zira.” He turned his head, the colorful beads at the end of tight braids[76] clicking a bit. Being annoyed by the sound would be unangelic. Gabriel was not annoyed by the sound.

He was not annoyed when Aziraphale smiled genuinely at Raphael. At least Aziraphale sat properly: straight-backed with his hands neatly folded. He didn't, however, look at Gabriel with the right mix of awe and intimidation. Gabriel was not annoyed by this. “Oh, Raphael, how kind of you. Perhaps you should explain it.”

Raphael laughed as if something humorous had been said. He did that often. Not annoying in the slightest. “Right. Listen, Gabe, I need Zira to go back to Earth. Did you see the humans went to the _moon_ yesterday? All on their own!”

He hadn’t seen, no, but smiled genially all the same. “Well done for them. It only took the better part of six thousand years.” He meant it, of course. Sarcasm was unangelic.

“I know! I was thrilled. It was the Americans, too. And what are they saying nowadays, Zira? Groovy?”

“I believe that's the, ah, current slang. Yes.”

“Groovy,” he said again, smiling like stars. Kaleidoscope eyes sparkled and shifted like his not-at-all-insufferable tie. 

Gabriel didn't know what an American was, nor did he know what _groovy_ was. A human was a human was a human and their ever-evolving language was unimportant, but his smile didn’t fade. “I’m sure they’re very proud.”

“Incredibly.”

“What does that have to do with our Principality here?”

“Wha- oh! Well, you know. He’s our eyes and ears down there. We need an angel on the ground, and I need to make sure the humans make it back to Earth safe and sound. And not sick. They’re literally reaching for the stars.” He beamed at Aziraphale, who smiled back. “That deserves a reward, so I’ll need a miracle. And Zira says he works best from the ground.”

“Did he.”

“Oh, you know I do.” Aziraphale’s hand fluttered, his small smile bright enough to down a commercial aeroplane. Gabriel had been fielding those too-bright smiles for far too long to see it as genuine. “I’ve told you _several_ times now, Gabriel.”

He smiled back, brittle and sharp. “And yet here you are again, back with us.”

“That’s another thing I wanted to discuss,” Raphael continued, leaning forward. “I want to put some extra protection into his corporation.”

The smile slid right off Gabriel’s face. “You want to see his corporation.”

Aziraphale's smile changed and it was, in Gabriel’s opinion, a little like a snake. “Did you know, Gabriel, that one can, ah, place wards and protections on a body?” 

It was unangelic to lie. It was unangelic to want to tell a fellow angel to fuck right off. Gabriel didn’t smile like an animal. He smiled like an angel. “Yes.”

“Fascinating.”

Raphael nodded eagerly, the beads in his hair clicking away. “Of course he'd know. Add it to the laundry list of responsibilities us Archangels have, right, Gabe?” 

He was not annoyed. He was thrilled to have Raphael in his office. It was an absolute pleasure. “Yes.”

“So, anyway, we went to the Quartermaster so I could toss one on, and he’s got instructions to not let Zira have access to his corporation unless you’re with him?” Raphael looked at him in a way that was probably meant to be friendly, but Gabriel felt a prickle of judgement somewhere in the base of his spine and he genuinely didn’t like it. “That’s not the usual protocol.”

“It isn’t?” Aziraphale wondered, sounding quite surprised. Gabriel started to get a tick, just a tiny one, at the corner of his left eye. “How odd. It’s always been that way for me, though I thought for sure the Quartermaster would make an exception for you, Raphael. You are, too, an Archangel. And he has made the odd exception for Michael, Uriel, and Sandalphon in the past.”

It.

Would.

Be.

_Unangelic._

To.

Scream.

Gabriel smiled in the face of Raphael’s curious glance. “Only when I’m not available. As you can see...” He spread his hands, charming smile setting his fellow Archangel somewhat at ease. “I’m available.”

“Alright, then let’s go. I’ve already looked over Zira's paperwork, Gabe. He turned it in and got it approved twenty-six years ago. Nothing in there suggests he should be having _desk duty_ when he’s got a perfectly serviceable body lying in wait.”

The tick at his left eye did not go away. “His discorporation was suspect.”

Raphael gave him another look, the one that usually came with an uncomfortable elbow in the ribs and a “Get with the times, Gabe.” Instead, he pushed himself out of the chair and actually _looked_ like an Archangel. The golden threads of his angeldom pulsed boldly against his dark skin. “There was a lot of war and a lot of innocent lives were taken in it. Heaven has a _host_ of new souls and Hell's dealing with all those who sent them here. The bombs fell where they fell.”

Gabriel quickly rose as well. “You’d know more about human affairs than I, Raphael. If you’re satisfied, so am I.” He rubbed his hands together and didn’t look at Aziraphale when he stood. “Though I’m curious to know what sort of additions you feel our Principality will need.”

“Protection. He gets himself into some difficult situations in his quest for goodness, doesn't he? I want to make it harder for him to be discorporated. By a demon's hands or anything else.”

The tick moved to the right eye. “How noble, Raphael.”

“Well, we are angels.”

Aziraphale looked at him as if he dared voice a contradiction, as if he _wanted_ him to, so Gabriel stayed quiet. The looks, the doublespeak, the cheerful babbling about things no angel could ever find interesting, the outright defiance that somehow wasn't explicit yet easily felt - spending time with Aziraphale was a punishment in and of itself. Uriel hated it especially, Gabriel thought, though it had been Michael assigned to him that day. Hm. They were normally better at handling him, so Gabriel was expecting quite an explanation as to how he'd been able to slip away and find Raphael. 

Gabriel was going to have to have words with Michael later. Perfectly civil but strongly worded, er, words. Turns of phrase. Something like that. He just had to remind them how important it was that Aziraphale be watched so no other angels - particularly not so another _Archangel_ could find out what they were doing. Not that they were doing anything wrong, he reminded himself. They still had their Grace, so everything was perfectly right.[77]

As the three of them approached the Quartermaster, he slid his cold gaze to Aziraphale and Gabriel was pleased to see the Principality at least had the presence of mind to be embarrassed when he was scoffed at. “You again, then?” he demanded, thick mustache twitching. 

Aziraphale’s gaze fell, expression slipping into discomfort, and Gabriel’s smile came easier.[78] “His corporation, Quartermaster. Please. The newest one you’ve made.”

“The newest?”

Gabriel’s smile hardened a hair. Their wards had been sitting and sinking into the oldest of his form’s for twenty-eight years and would reach full strength in another twenty-two. But with Raphael meddling, he couldn’t risk him feeling them all when he added his own. “Yes.”

With a nod, the Quartermaster disappeared into the back of his office and returned with what looked more like a mannequin than anything. After signing for it, Aziraphale stepped forward and took a hold of the thing’s hand. His essence slipped inside and the Heavenly canvas took on his preferred shapes and features, leaving him abhorrently chubby, middle-aged, and with hair nearly white it was so blond. Gabriel did not grimace.

He tugged on the stark white lapels of his corporation’s suit and it changed into a nightmare of beige and cream and tartan.[79] Gabriel did, only briefly, grimace. “As a Heavenly soldier, you should really consider keeping your corporation more... trim,” he advised.

Aziraphale ignored him - _it would be unangelic to scream_ \- and turned his smile on Raphael and the Quartermaster. “Ahh, thank you. I do feel much better in my body.”

“You look better.” Raphael dug his elbow into Gabriel’s ribs. “Don’t let Gabe here get you down. These corporations are built for change, Zira. We are Her clay.”

Gabriel would’ve called Aziraphale’s next glance _smug_ , but the moment passed too quickly to be mentioned. “That we are,” the Principality agreed cheerfully.

Raphael snapped his fingers before Gabriel could say something unangelic like “Aziraphale’s more like Her mud.” He’d been the last angel in Creation, after all, and the only after the Fall. Something had clearly gone wrong in the moulding. Not that anything the Almighty built was _wrong_ , no, but perhaps the materials...

Gabriel closed off that unsettling thought process when Michael appeared. Uriel was on their heels and, ah, good, Sandalphon was with them. He beamed. Glorious backup. 

“Gabriel, a word?”

His brows lifted. That was not the appropriate tone for glorious backup. “Of course, Michael.” He sent Uriel and Sandalphon meaningful looks and they promptly flanked Aziraphale. He and Michael walked away as some of that smartas- aleck attitude slumped the Principality’s shoulders. Good.

“I’ve heard, from a very... a source that things are stirring in Hell.”

“Of course they are, Michael. That’s what they do down there, isn’t it? Stir things up?”

They didn’t have a response to that, but sighed and everything abruptly changed. “Satan has left to find his bride.”

Gabriel stared at them quietly for several seconds, then several more, and a few more besides while his mind worked through what those words meant. Then he was suddenly grinning, big and bright and absolutely thrilled.

War was coming.

* * *

* * *

### Footnotes

73. Please see the deleted scenes in the scriptbook, specifically the IN WHICH CROWLEY GOES CLOTHES SHOPPING scene. Find me on tumblr if you'd like a link!↩

74. Of course he enjoyed it. Aziraphale would take any chance to talk about Crowley, particularly when he couldn't talk to him.↩

75. Aziraphale hadn't exactly sought Raphael out. The Archangel had found him. He'd had an Earthly question and had felt Aziraphale might be the best person to ask. He'd stayed because Aziraphale's rambling, excited answer had been intriguing. Aziraphale had welcomed it because, well, he welcomed any and all opportunities to discuss Earth and its wonders. Not to mention Raphael's knowledge of the star builders, an area Aziraphale was markedly interested in.↩

76. Raphael liked to peek in on humans, changing his fashion and his hairstyle almost daily to match whatever he caught a glimpse of. Today, he was inspired by a mostly-nude woman with a flower crown braiding beads into her boyfriend’s hair.↩

77. Gabriel doesn’t much understand hypocrisy. Nuance isn’t really his style.↩

78. Not that he was gaining joy over someone else's sorrow, no. That would be unangelic.↩

79. They were only copies of things he'd owned on Earth, things he knew were tucked securely away in a black bag in a demon's pocket. Except the tartan cravat. That was his own choice because, well, he thought it was quite charmingly stylish. If he could've been down there with him, he was fairly certain he'd wear this.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at [SylWritesStuff](https://sylwritesstuff.tumblr.com/) and my lovely beta at [skimmingmilk](https://skimmingmilk.tumblr.com/).


	8. Somebody to Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A feather leads, a demon follows, and a concert is not attended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I even have to link to [this ch song](https://open.spotify.com/track/6cFZ4PLC19taNlpl9pbGMf?si=S77q9zl1QTugjOdDIv5lQg)? lol. We all have it in every GO playlist we've ever made.
> 
> Big thank you, as usual, to [SkimmingTheSurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface) for her beta work

_You are a song I could listen to  
__over and over again  
__although I'm convinced  
__it had played in my head many times before..._

― Nicola An

* * *

**_1984  
_** **_Soho, London_ **

Something had gone wrong in Heaven. It was the only explanation Crowley had for why he spent fifteen years searching for and unable to track down Aziraphale. He’d known the moment the angel had arrived back on Earth, as he’d known for millennia, but no matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t pinpoint the exact location. It was like a blanket had fallen across the UK one sweltering July day in 1969 and just hadn’t left. It kept any attempts to find his angel muffled and tangled.

And it ratcheted up his anxiety like- like something extremely bloody stressful. He couldn't simile when his mind was reeling, and it was most definitely reeling. What could’ve gone wrong? Had they amped up their punishment because of the possession thing? Had they _known_? An angel could Fall for something that outside the lines, but he’d know if his angel ever had his holiness burned away. As much as he didn’t want it to happen, he’d catch him on the way down if it did.

He hoped She knew that.

He hoped more that it wouldn’t always be like this. There was no going back to Eden, and he wasn’t nearly naive enough to believe things would ever be that simple again for anyone. But to actually have an angel who _remembered_ would be...

It would be better than good. 

Crowley sighed to himself, taking the angel feather out of his jacket pocket. It was as white and pristine as it had been the day it had fluttered down to him in 1941. Right before he’d traveled to Hell to grin at three Nazis and terrify them with his presence alone. Imagination, he knew, could go a long way so he’d let the three of them stew a bit before encouraging Hastur and Ligur to flip for the privilege of actual torture. Killing them and revealing himself as a demon to their damned souls had been revenge enough for him.

He'd had things to do, after all. Preparations to make. Aziraphale had come back twenty-two years earlier than expected, so all the political groundwork he'd laid had yet to really reach fruition, but public opinion had made a _turn_. The world had fallen in love with rock stars, with glitz and glamour and over-the-top _everything_. The Americans had started their bizarre television craze making music videos and the more flamboyant, the better. 

Part of it, he liked to think, was that spritz of free love mentality he'd given them in the sixties. But the biggest part of it, he knew, was simply humans being humans. There would most definitely be battles to fight and it wasn't as if everyone was coming out and proud, the culture still in a subversive stage. But they'd get there. Humans were very powerful things. 

Not that he would ever say that aloud. He was still a demon. 

He sighed, letting the feather brush against his cheek. A bad demon, but one nevertheless. A demon looking for one angel. The feather pulsated. He stilled, eyes opening as if Aziraphale would somehow be right there, but he was still alone, splayed on the bookshop ceiling and wallowing. Aziraphale would’ve called him dramatic, he thought, and the feather pulsated again.

It hadn't done that ever before. 

Nor had it ever jumped out of his hand before. “Oi!” 

\----

**_1984  
_** **_Vienna, Austria_ **

A rock and roll concert was not Aziraphale's preferred method of entertainment. He'd rather be... in a library, he decided, all the way in the back. Where it was peaceful and quiet and full of books. He closed his eyes, wishing his deep breaths were filled with paper and leather scents instead of sweat and illicit substances. He wished his ears could hear Tchaikovsky or Schubert instead of wild screaming and the combination of robotic voices and electric guitars and a lead singer who was somehow familiar, though he'd certainly never listened to the band before. 

He'd spent all of his life having experiences like that, though, all fifteen years of it. There were so many things in London, especially, that felt so familiar yet so strange all the same. A school trip into the city had gotten his teacher very cross one year when he'd been eight and still prone to announcing himself instead of tucking away. He'd quite confidently proclaimed that the road they were driving on was freshly built after the Second World War and there had once been a lovely ice cream parlour just where they had passed. She had been furious with him when their driver had been unable to confirm or deny and Aziraphale had called her “my dear girl” in his efforts to placate her. Adults didn't like to be placated. Not by fellow adults, not by teenagers, and _certainly_ not by children. 

But he'd been an argumentative and opinionated child, carrying a bitterness beyond his years and an emptiness that no child psychiatrist had been able to explain. Not that he'd been able to see many of those, no. There was only so much which could be done in a group home. Other children besides him had been distraught, too, and he was always more than happy to step aside and allow someone else to make use of the too few resources. Including being a safe haven himself. That same eight-year-old had spent more than one night with someone else's tears on his shoulder and someone else's problems in his ear. 

Maybe he shouldn't have. The way those problems seemed to clear right up after he'd been consulted hadn't gone unnoticed and he'd become something of a... a commodity. Or a pet, he thought distastefully. He'd never begrudge someone a need to vent their woes, but when they'd started treating him like some sort of good luck charm, could he be blamed for being tetchy? He just wanted to be left alone. 

Perhaps that was why he'd accepted the invitation in the first place, though he was walking around a concert venue in the quieter halls with a book in his hand instead of in his seat, listening to the music in full with his peers. He just wanted to get away. He didn't want to, ah, _tear it up_. He didn't know what it was they were supposed to be tearing, but everyone seemed quite ready to begin. 

Not him. He was not interested in stomping feet and flashing lights and smoke effects.[80] He was interested in his book and somewhere quiet to hide away until the whole ordeal was _over_. 

Just as he found a corner to tuck away in, though, he felt strong hands grasp his shoulders from behind and _push_. “Oh-!” 

\----

The feather didn't flit and float delicately. It wasn't a romantic chase, fingertips only just grazing the white ends before it fluttered just out of reach again. No. This was not that. This was _annoying_ and not unlike a firework shooting off. 

Or a bullet, Crowley unflatteringly decided. 

He barely had his glasses over his eyes before the damn thing disappeared _under the door_. Not a bullet, then, a thing possessed. A thing on a mission. Could inanimate objects have missions? What a stupid thought, 'course they could. But he thought he could be allowed a stupid thought or two, considering that he was racing after a _feather_ in the middle of Soho. 

Then again, he didn't stay there long. It winked out of existence and he followed. He'd had it long enough now to feel it with ease, though he'd never parted with it before. Not one _moment_ had it been far from reach since it had first found its way into his hand in 1941.[81]

He'd never seen Aziraphale at the main entrance to their offices before. In all these years, all the chance glances he'd made upwards just _hoping_ for a glimpse, and there he'd been. Positively angelic, looking down on him from high. Bright, hazy around the edges, wings out, and determined. So determined, and it had been so very like him to offer a token. 

Crowley really should've known it was more than that, his heart racing in his chest as he was led across Europe. He didn't remember de-aging, the years slipping off his corporation, but he knew once he finally got a hand on the feather, he looked decidedly fifteen. He _felt_ fifteen, looking down at himself with a small frown. Gangly and skinny were very different from long-limbed and slender, and he didn't feel like he quite _fit_ in this form. It was... awkward. 

Like any human going through puberty, he thought sourly, and ignored the wave of sympathy for humanity as a whole and especially for Aziraphale, who'd had to tolerate this more times than any one being should ever have to. He still couldn't _feel_ his angel, though, not in the way he was used to. The same blanket over the UK seemed to have fallen over Austria now, but he looked at the white building and listened beyond human ears, and was startled to hear Queen. 

In 1941, the music in his Bentley had been a mystery, the singing coming from a man not yet born and the music of a style not yet created. In 1974, the music had come from the actual radio and not from his very insistent speakers and he'd nearly crashed[82] the car in shock. They'd become a reality and that had to mean something. 

He was outside of a Queen concert and the feather had stopped struggling. 

That had to mean something. 

Another glance down at himself made him shrug. At least he was already dressed like a teenager, plotting right along with the times. Skin tight, jeans ripped in the right places, fluffed up hair - it was his favorite decade so far, personally. Wondering how difficult it would be to influence the rockstar image to last a while, he sauntered right into the building. 

Security didn't notice him and, had they, he would've flashed a pink ticket and kept on moving. The crowd was enormous, their volume nearly overwhelming when he peeked his head in to the arena proper. He wiggled his hips through “Machines,” wandering the crowds and feeling the feather twitch and pulse against his chest from where he'd tucked it back into his inner breast pocket. 

When “Tear It Up” started, his angel still unseeable[83] in the massive gathering and the rhythmic claps and boot stomping started, he backed out of the main arena with electric guitars and a thumping bass following. Aziraphale wouldn't stick around for that, for people screaming that they were ready, Freddie, to tear it up. His lips quirked even as he wondered just why he'd be there to begin with. This was _not_ his scene. He was sure he'd find him somewhere quiet and alone, Crowley entertaining himself with images of tartan earmuffs and a familiar pout. 

He searched through the song and the next, though hearing “Tie Your Mother Down” getting wailed kept him from going back in to see if he was there after all. It very clearly wasn't his sort of music, the electric guitar spilling out of every opening he passed. 

In the brief pause between that and “Under Pressure,” he heard a soft outcry. Still no real sense of where his angel was, but he could feel waves of negativity. It was so out of place in the concert, waves of cheers nothing but excited and gleeful from inside the arena. The most irritation he'd felt had been from people waiting in the lines to the bathrooms. And maybe some bigger annoyance with the concession prices. 

Sighing, wondering if a couple of imbeciles had decided to get some extra schillings off some unsuspecting sap out of the way of security, he wandered closer. Not to help, no, not at all. Just to see what was- He stopped. 

That was _his_ unsuspecting sap. 

Crowley spasmed in place, too aware of the way his eyes widened behind his sunglasses. Even looking straight at him - platinum blond hair, blue eyes, fifteen in this life, and trying to stand up - Crowley couldn't pinpoint the sense of his angeldom. Like he was hidden away somehow, buried under layers as thick as that tartan sweater vest. 

“Unhand my book, you reprobates!” 

One of the blokes surrounding him sneered, shot back with something in Bavarian. _Fuck_. Crowley's Bavarian was so rusty, but a quick snap of his fingers kept bullying hands from tearing a page out of Aziraphale's book and garnered attention. He didn't look at the angel, but he did step closer to berate them in rough Bavarian. “What's the English lad done to you? Back off.”

One of them instead used the heel of his boot to press Aziraphale back to the floor, and Crowley surged forward and hauled him up by his tank top. He slammed him against the wall. “I said _leave him alone._ ”

“None of your business what we do.” There was something in his eyes, a glint that was something stronger than the alcohol on his breath. Great. They were high. 

“The angel's my business.” Taking advantage of his back being to Aziraphale, Crowley let his jaw fall open and his teeth shift into something too sharp, too dangerous, and absolutely terrifying for someone already on edge. The would-be bully shrieked and Crowley let him go, turning towards the other two. 

Baffled as they were when their friend fled, the one holding Aziraphale's book tossed it over his shoulder and they both tried to attack Crowley when he stepped between them and Aziraphale. He contorted his features again, his snarl vicious. “Walk away before I drag you to Hell by your hair,” he growled, taking a step closer, and the two humans nearly tripped over themselves and each other in their haste to flee. 

Smoothing his face back into something not at all terrifying and thoroughly human, Crowley continued forward until he could reach down and scoop up Aziraphale's book. _The Complete Works of William Shakespeare_. He didn't bother to temper his grin. Leave it to Aziraphale. 

He turned back towards him, grin softening. The angel watched him quietly, hands clasped and back against the wall. Not frightened, but... cautious. Crowley walked over and, instead of offering a hand to pull Aziraphale up, sat down beside him. “You, dove, are not dressed for a concert.”

“ _Oh_ ,” he breathed, the caution melting away and his hands restlessly pushing the air down in a motion that was probably designed to be settling. It was more familiar than this version of his face. Youthful, free of lines, more Cherub than Principality. “You're English.”

England was his favorite place to be, so it was as good as true. “Yeah. Bavarian's a bit muddled, actually. Shocked they understood me.”

“You sounded very convincing and quite... growly. What did you tell them?” 

_Growly._ Ugh. “That I knew they were high and I'd turn 'em in if they didn't leg it,” he lied. He opened the book and ran his fingers down a page, smoothing the wrinkles from where it had hit the floor. “But really, a sweater vest and pleated trousers? To see Queen?” 

There was the pout he'd expected, but he angled his chin up and Crowley suddenly wanted to take him to dinner. He was thinner than he'd been the sparse few times Crowley had come across him at this age, and it brought questions and concerns rushing through. What had gone wrong in Heaven? “I _like_ my sweater vest and pleated trousers. They're lucky they didn't get me dirty.”

Crowley laughed. “I'd've had to do more than rough one up and scare off the others if they had.”

The bravado died instantly. “Oh, no, dear boy, that's not at all what I meant.”

“I know. So Shakespeare?” 

Aziraphale took his book back with a grateful smile, opening it to search the pages for any crinkles or tears. “I thought I might escape some of the... noise and read a bit. Thank you very much for your assistance. You certainly weren't under any obligation to-” 

“S'fine, dove. Don't thank me.”

He smiled, cheeks turning that same pretty pink and eyes that same, twinkling blue. Still his angel. “But I'm very grateful for the, ah, rescue. You even fetched my book.”

“Someone had to, didn’t they?”

Aziraphale drew his knees up to his chest, book balancing on them. “No. No one _has_ to do good deeds.”

 _You do_. Crowley shook his head. “Mnngh, nah. Wasn’t a good deed. Totally selfish, that’s all.”

“Selfish,” Aziraphale echoed in disbelief, and Crowley watched him flip to _Hamlet_. Of fucking course. It made his heart warm even as it made him want to squirm in place. He still liked it. After all this time. After everything else Shakespeare had written.

“Course,” he squawked, teenage vocal cords cracking embarrassingly. His face colored when Aziraphale sent him a small smile, but he ignored that extra mortification and grinned back. “Maybe I’ve got a thing for blonds.”

“Oh!” he gasped, lashes fluttering. “I- Oh, don’t be silly.”

“But it’s my favorite thing to be.”

Aziraphale shuffled his feet, pressing his spine straight against the wall. “Then you’re very good at it.”

“I’m excellent at it. The best. Top of a jester class.” When Aziraphale giggled, Crowley waved a hand in his direction. “See? It’s working.”

“It is not.” But his smile said it was, at least a little. “But, really, I don’t think you coming to my aide was selfish at all. It was very kind of you.”

There was a beat, a ruined church in London, the taste of Aziraphale’s mouth still lingering on his tongue. He couldn’t feel the angel in him, but he could see it flicker in those blue eyes. Flickered long enough for him to see the joy went deeper than the light teasing. Crowley relaxed beside him, letting his long legs sprawl across the linoleum, and sighed with something like relief. He was doing right by his angel. They could do this, and it would be alright.

“Shut up,” he replied, feeling Aziraphale wiggle happily beside him. _What was your plan, angel_? _What happened in Heaven_? 

“Now why aren't you- Oh, it quieted down. Is it over?” 

Crowley smiled, able to hear the piano. “He's playing a love song.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed, laying a hand over his heart. “I didn't realize there would be any of that here.”

_Can anybody find me somebody to love?_

“Don't you believe there's love everywhere? You seem that sort.”

“Well, yes, of course, but the beginning was so... raucous and I really don't know the first thing about current bebop.”

“ _Bebop_. That's rock'n'roll, dove. And they're just singing poetry.”

_Ooh, each morning I get up I die a little...  
_ _Can barely stand on my feet...  
_ _(Take a look at yourself) Take a look in the mirror and cry (and cry)...  
_ _Lord, what you're doing to me (yeah yeah)...  
_ _I have spent all my years in believing you...  
_ _But I just can't get no relief, Lord!_

“Poetry,” Aziraphale echoed quietly. “Do you know I... I think I've heard this one.”

Crowley nodded, throat tight. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

_I work hard (he works hard) every day of my life...  
_ _I work 'til I ache in my bones...  
_ _At the end (at the end of the day)...  
_ _I take home my hard earned pay all on my own...  
_ _I get down (down) on my knees (knees)...  
_ _And I start to pray...  
_ _'Til the tears run down from my eyes..._

“I think I like it. The others were dreadful.”

Crowley chuckled. “I don't think this is their best album, but there are some good songs on it. M'glad they're mixin' in some of the ones from their last tour too.”

“So you are a fan, then?” He laid a hand on the ground, using it to adjust himself as Crowley nodded. “What on Earth are you doing away from the din, my dear, instead of enjoying yourself?” 

“Who says I'm not enjoying myself right here?” 

Crowley covered Aziraphale's hand with his, listening to his breath hitch in wonder. “Gosh.”

“Just read your book, dove.”

_Oh, Lord...  
_ _Ooh somebody, ooh somebody...  
_ _Can anybody find me somebody to love?  
_ _Can anybody find me someone to love?_

Crowley left his hand where it was, not pressuring anything to happen as the band played on and the cheers grew when “Somebody to Love” segued into “Killer Queen.” It was still on Aziraphale's through the next two songs and Freddie's impromptu musical game. During “It's a Hard Life,” Aziraphale's hand turned up so their palms could meet. 

During “Love of My Life,” he whispered, “I've heard this one. In a car once. It was very dark, but the driver knew where he was going.”

It had been dark because headlights hadn't been safe in the Blitz, not even for them. He had known where he was going because he'd spent a great many years in the bookshop. “That's all you remember?” 

Aziraphale hummed, so Crowley started gently rubbing his thumb against the side of Aziraphale's hand. Had he figured out how to keep some of the memories? Was that what his plan had been? “That's all. I think. How long has this band been around?” 

“1970, or thereabouts.”

“Oh. I suppose that does sound right. More logical than the forties, I should say.” Aziraphale stilled, glancing over. “Not that I, er, or rather, I- well. I suppose it's- You see-” 

“It's fine.”

“Oh, no, I don't know that it is. I get teased awfully for... for my, ah, poor memory.”

“By who?” Crowley demanded. He liked kids, but he was passing for fifteen and would lay all the hormonal fury on a fellow teenager should the opportunity become necessary. Defending his angel was always necessary.

Aziraphale smiled at him. “Are you always so willing to do battle?” 

“Depends who's on the other side of the fight.”

He laughed, their hands staying linked. “Don't go through all this trouble on my account. You're already wasting your time sitting here. Aren't you bored, dear boy?” 

“I can hear it from here, and as much as I don't mind watching Freddie jump about without a shirt on, I'm sitting next to you.”

“You don't even know my name.”

“Well, whose fault is that?” 

A single brow lifted. “ _You_ haven't asked my name.”

“Go on, then. Let's hear it.” Again. Except this time, it came with hesitation. His hand withdrew to very delicately toy with the corner of his book page. “Dove?” 

Aziraphale gave him a sidelong look. “It's very peculiar, but I don't believe I've had cause to introduce myself before. Normally, others do it for me. I find myself unsure if I should provide the real thing or one of the, ah, nicknames I've been given.”

What was happening to his angel in this life? “I'd like the real thing.”

“It's a mouthful.”

“I've a talented mouth.”

“Oh!” he gasped, making Crowley grin. “You- you wicked thing.” He only shrugged, gesturing for him to continue, and Aziraphale huffily shifted in place. “I'm Aziraphale.”

“Aziraphale,” he echoed, _finally_. “S'pose everyone calls me Anthony, but I'd rather Crowley.”

“Crowley?” he wondered, something filtering across his features. 

“S'family name. I just like it better.” From him, he did. Anthony was for the humans and, privately, so they could both have a name that started with an A. 

“A family name,” Aziraphale echoed, that odd look still on his face. 

“What's wrong, dove?” 

“Oh. Oh, nothing. It's just- I suppose it just sounds very familiar. But it can't, can it? We've never met before.”

Crowley swallowed. “Mnngg.”

“I'm terribly sorry. I- As I said, my memory tends to be a bit...”

“Exhaustive?” 

“Just odd, I suppose. Sometimes, I remember things - I say, 'remember.' I don't believe that's the correct word, but that's the feeling it gives me. These playbacks in my mind of days gone by. When I was younger, I was told they were, ah, coping mechanisms.” He offered Crowley a small smile, too insecure to really belong to his angel, but Crowley lifted a hand to cup his cheek and watched it color beneath his palm. His lashes fluttered and lips parted in surprise. “Gosh.”

“What did you need to cope with?” 

“Oh,” he sighed. “It's nothing, my dear. You're being quite patient with me. I normally don't say so much.”

“S'fine.” Crowley let his hand fall away, but left the one loosely clasped with Aziraphale's alone. “So people have nicknames for you?” 

His nose wrinkled, expression pinching just a little bit at the corners of his mouth. “Yes.”

“Like any of them?” 

“Heavens, no.”

“Then I'm not worried about them. Aziraphale isn't that hard to say.”

“You've been calling me something much shorter anyway.”

He grinned. “Noticed that, did you?” 

“Difficult not to. How did you know I wouldn't, ah, be offended by your... Attention?” 

“Flirting, dove. I'm flirting with you,” he corrected, amused by the way his eyes widened. This really wasn't so difficult, being honest about his intentions. He'd decided that was probably the best way to get his angel in his life, since he'd be lying about a whole host of other things. With very explicit permission, but lying nonetheless. 

“You can't flirt with _me_.”

“Why not?” 

“Well, there are- er. Well.”

“Go on. Tell me there are _rules_ against it.” He wished his political meddling had gotten further along. Maybe he should've given himself a more female corporation this time around, but he hadn't felt like it. And he'd never kissed Aziraphale outside of the male version. “It's the eighties, dove. Rockstars get away with this all the time, and if you know _anything_ about history, it isn't new.”

“Oh, no, it isn't _that_. It's a bit, ah, _questionable_ from a Biblical perspective, in some opinions, but I firmly believe there's no sin in love. Er.” He blinked at him and Crowley stared back. “So sorry. I just got the oddest sense of deja vu.”

Crowley had gotten more than that, but it was fascinating to see Aziraphale with his memories again. Not intact, but at the surface. “S'fine. What is the problem, then? Your family?” An obstacle Crowley hadn't yet considered. 

Aziraphale dropped his gaze to his book, fingers twitching over Crowley's. “I don't have one,” he mumbled. 

“You what?” 

“I don't have one,” he repeated, louder, looking up at him in a desperation that reminded him of the wall in Eden. “It- I was _left_ on the doorstep of a convent. I was left in a basket with nothing but a note that said, 'This is Aziraphale Fell. He needs nothing more than the basics. Good day.' Naturally, the convent called a local children's home and off I went.”

Crowley blinked behind his sunglasses, hardly able to believe it. Not once, not _one bloody time_ in all the years and all the lives had Heaven not given him a family. Moreover, a wealthy family so he would always be able to travel freely and fulfill his assignments with minimal fuss. What had gone wrong in Heaven? he wondered again, knowing it would hardly be the last time. This wasn't a normal life. 

He didn't think he minded that. 

“Well, that's alright. I don't have a family either.”

Aziraphale’s contemplative annoyance faded on a small gasp. “Oh, my dear...”

“It's fine, dove. Really. Got a good inheritance and was, ah, mostly raised by nannies anyway.” It was an on-the-spot decision, the lie seeming pretty British. His planning clearly should've included his own back story, but he had some gaps, it seemed. “They traveled a bunch, never saw 'em.”

“Is that how you know Bavarian?” 

“I know a bunch of languages.” Several of them dead, one of them a reptile. “But yeah. They'd go one place, I went another. When they passed, it was kind of like losing distant strangers.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s brows drew together, but his fingers very carefully laced with Crowley’s. “I'm still sorry. How old were you?”

He paused, taking a moment to remember how old they were now and when did humans start walking and talking? When did school start? Shit. “Five,” he settled on. Ten years seemed okay. 

It was at least acceptable to Aziraphale, who nodded and squeezed his hand. Crowley squeezed back and earned a small smile for the effort. “I suppose that explains why you're so at ease with it. You were very young. No other family to take you in?” 

“Nope.”

“It couldn't have just been you and nannies, though. Foster care?” 

What the fuck was foster care again? Bugger. He was not prepared for this. “They were... really rich. I was taken care of, y'know. It was sort of a revolving door of people.”

“How lonely that must've been.”

“Yeah.” That didn't take any thought, any preparation or quick thinking. No smooth lies, just a quiet sigh. “What about you?”

“Well, there have always been people around and, of course, ones my age, but...”

There was no one even _close_ to his age on Earth except him, so Crowley squeezed his hand again. “Never felt right? Can't quite connect?” 

“How...?”

“Maybe it's just part of being lonely. Whole room of people and you just feel like... Nobody can see you.”

“And if they do, they want something from you?” he said quietly, hurt, and Crowley realized that an _angel_ had been in an orphanage. An _angel_ amongst all that misery, all those hopes and fears and truly difficult situations. The sorts of things that made people question the existence of God without remembering that there was a balance to things. Good and evil existed equally in the world, the shades of gray varied and endless. 

Crowley leaned into him, letting go of his hand to slip an arm around him. How many blessings and miracles had he performed over the years to even be seen as a person of use? What had happened in Heaven? “Yeah. I don't want anything from you.”

“It seems that you do.”

“Company only. I don't have any problems that need to be fixed, dove. Besides, I helped you first.” This time. “How about this - you can get letters, can't you? Phone calls?” 

“Letters are simpler. We have phone privileges, but they're very restrictive.”

They wouldn't be if Crowley called, but he nodded and reached into his pocket. The notebook and pen that appeared hadn't been there before he'd reached for them, but he scribbled down the Mayfair flat address and passed a torn out page over. He would've rather written the bookshop's down, but one thing at a time. “Here's my place. Write me?”

“Why?” 

“I like you.”

“ _Why_?”

Difficult angel. “Write me and we'll both find out. I'm not wandering off anywhere right now, either. Just want you to have this before I forget.”

Aziraphale took the page and tucked it into the folds of his book. A good sign. “You're... not going away.”

“Nope.”

“You're missing the concert.”

“Yup.”

“Is it alright if I continue to read?” 

“Yup.”

“I see,” he murmured and Crowley grinned. “How long do these concert things normally last, Crowley?” 

“Hour. Hour and half. Maybe closer to two if the crowd's good enough to warrant an extra encore.”

Aziraphale tapped a finger to a page, slanting Crowley a look. “Well... I hope they are.”

They would be. Even if they weren't, somehow, two encore sets would be played. He wanted to squeeze every second out of this that he could, his angel tucked in close. Safe and quietly reading Shakespeare while the music played, muffled but good enough for a demon's ears. 

And in any of Aziraphale's lives or in Crowley's too long one, they were the most peaceful hours they'd ever had. 

* * *

* * *

### Footnotes

80. He did like the smoke effects, but he'd rather see them at a magic act. Freddie Mercury's gyrations may have had the power to make both men and women swoon, but Aziraphale wouldn't call that proper magic.↩

81. Which, okay, yes, was a little needy and pitiful. But Crowley wasn't about to be honest or introspective about things.↩

82. He had, in fact, crashed very solidly into a post, but no one had been around and a quick snap had gotten everything right as rain again. It didn't count as a crash.↩

83. More importantly, unsensible. That is, unable to be sensed.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On that adorable note, I need to announce that I'm dropping to once a week updates again. I haven't decided if it's going to be Wednesday or Saturday, but it's not because I've slowed my writing. My darling beta needs a break and I'm working on a new fic. There's a severe lack of ABO in this fandom, so stay tuned if interested :D
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [SylWritesStuff](https://sylwritesstuff.tumblr.com/) and my lovely beta at [skimmingmilk](https://skimmingmilk.tumblr.com/).


	9. One Step at a Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evil always contains the seeds of its own destruction. No matter how well-planned, how foolproof an evil plan, no matter how apparently successful it may seem upon the way, in the end it will founder on the rocks on iniquity and vanish. 
> 
> Even though this evil plan was very well-intentioned. Can't a demon get a break once in a while?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Chapter song](https://open.spotify.com/track/5o4W6yWSJD9e9Ea8YC9WjF?si=Iontm_3oTs2EGui9cl-H4A)
> 
> Thank you to my beta, [SkimmingTheSurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface) and ceaseless support. This chapter, she also decided (and was encouraged) to invade the footnotes. They'll be italicized. So enjoy!

_...instinct is a trace of an old experience that has been repeated many times  
__and the impressions have sunk down to the bottom of the mental lake.  
__Although they go down, they aren’t completely erased.  
__Don’t think you ever forget anything._

― Sri S. Satchidananda

* * *

**_1984  
_** **_Vienna, Austria_ **

Aziraphale hadn’t expected him to stay. Really, he hadn't expected any sort of rescue at all. In his experience, would-be bullies always left him alone so long as he was firm enough in his insistence that they do exactly that.[84] But he'd hardly had time to be firm before Crowley had appeared. 

He'd looked as rough as they had, dark red hair teased and carefully styled, dark denim trousers ripped across the thighs, a Queen shirt and a black suit jacket that was half a size too big to top it all off. He even had an earring. Certainly not the sort Aziraphale would've expected to come to his rescue. Rather, he'd expected the worst when he'd started snapping at them in gruff Bavarian that had sounded like a vicious growl. 

Yet he sat, kept him tucked close with an arm around him even, and let him read. He hummed along to some of the music, tapping the beat against Aziraphale's hip, but he _stayed_. 

He hadn't even called him odd for the way he'd babbled about his peculiar memory. No one just let him ramble on about things that couldn't have possibly happened, yet were remembered. Or at least felt like memories. They were always hazy at the edges, like watching an old film, and the words being said in them weren't always clear. Often, the things that happened looked blurry and sounded as if they were happening underwater. On the rare occasion something would be clear, he'd say it to see if anyone around him remembered it too. 

Like being in a dark car, listening to love songs while the shadowed man beside him drove a car that had seemed so new.

But Crowley hadn't judged him. Instead, he'd asked if that was all. Like he cared. Like he was _listening_ to him instead of talking at him. 

His name had teased those hazy edges too, and Aziraphale was fairly positive that was why he'd felt safe enough to accept the nearness. It wasn't something he usually tolerated from strangers, but it was very nice from this one. It was lovely, even, to be wrapped up in someone who made him feel safe and seen and heard. 

Perhaps he'd been reading too many romance novels at the library as of late. 

“This is it,” Crowley murmured, the roar of the crowd almost louder than the music. “Last encore.”

“Already?” Aziraphale whispered, unable to quite hide the disappointment in his tone. 

Crowley smiled, and Aziraphale wondered if it reached his eyes. They were hidden behind dark, reflective lenses, so he couldn't quite tell. Aziraphale was always faintly surprised to see himself in reflections and photographs. He never looked as old as he felt, and the sunglasses were no different. “How long are you in Vienna?” 

“Through tomorrow. We're taking a train to Belgium and a ferry across to England.”

“‘We?’” he echoed and Aziraphale supposed that was fair. They hadn't talked about much of import, had they? 

“There are four besides me in our age group, and we received tickets for this concert through a donation. We had the option, of course, to say no, but...” But he'd seen the band name, heard one song from one of the more excitable girls, and thought he should go. “Turning down a gift seemed very rude. So there are five of us and only one chaperone.”

“Explains how you were able to get away from them so easily.”

Aziraphale nodded, using the address Crowley had written to mark his page. He'd most definitely write to this unusual boy. Very stylish, very sweet, and possibly a little wicked. “If this is nearly the end, though...”

“Hang on. What if I found you later tonight?” 

“T-tonight?” 

“We could take a walk. Get dinner somewhere.” Crowley smiled again, a wry twist that Aziraphale knew would also be in his eyes. “As a date. I'm asking you on a date.”

A stranger asking _him_ on a date in a foreign city. Asking him to sneak away because he'd surely have to. Perhaps it was naive of him, but it really was like a novel. Getting rescued and then swept right off his feet in a whirlwind romance by a dashing stranger. He hadn't expected it to come at fifteen, but that's where reckless met naivete and had him nod. “I'd like that very much.”

The arena doors opened, the crowds starting to filter out. They were just as loud, though no longer cheering and screaming for the band to play on. The excitement pumping off of them was palpable, their conversations turning to how great it had been, how hot Freddie was, how hot or cool or talented they all were, how good the music had been, how bright the lights, how they'd be up all week living off the joy.

Like an ocean wave, the good feelings crashed over Aziraphale and made him sigh happily. “It must've been a very good show.”

“They always put one on from what I've seen.”

Aziraphale glanced over at him, his smile quietly, newly fond. “You missed this one.”

“Yeah, but there'll be more. Only one o'you.”[85]

He giggled, unable to keep from wiggling. “Wily serpent,” he accused, taking inspiration from the neat little tattoo at his temple. It seemed to be the right choice from the soft way Crowley smiled.

He rose, and Aziraphale took his offered hand. He didn't need the help up, but he liked that it was offered. He liked that Crowley didn't immediately let go, too, though neither of them mentioned it. He got the distinct feeling that saying anything would only embarrass him, but Aziraphale couldn't contain his bright smile. 

“Where're you staying, dove?” 

Oh, he did like being called that. It felt like a sweet secret, something just for him. “Not far, but it is a little place.”

As he was telling him the name of their hotel and a rough idea of how to get there, someone shouted, “Zira!” and made him wince.

“‘Zira,’” Crowley echoed. “S'not a nickname, it's laziness.”

“Well, they also call me Ezra.” Aziraphale secretly agreed with the grimace Crowley made, but he wouldn't say so out loud. Someone's feelings could get hurt. “They don't call me Phale, at least, and I mind Zira less than the other.”

He bobbed his head in acceptance as a girl ran up to them. “Ms. Taylor is furious with you, come _on_.”

“With me? What have I done?” 

“You weren't there when we stood up. She's mad at Tiff, too, for not knowing when you left. I-” She stopped, noticing Crowley. “Um, hi?” 

“Hi.” He sounded less than enthusiastic about the interruption. 

Aziraphale gently squeezed his hand and let him go. “We'll chat again, my dear. Mind how you go.”

“Right,” he agreed, somehow fitting his fingers into those tight denim pockets. “See you 'round, Aziraphale.”

Smiling, Aziraphale let himself be dragged away and was grateful for their chaperone's upset so long as it kept any questions about Crowley at bay. This felt like something special, something entirely theirs, and he didn't want to dampen it by hearing anyone else's doubts or disapproval. 

After all, his Pathway Plan hadn't included dating. 

\----

The plan, such as it was, had ultimately been very simple:

Step 1. Find Aziraphale.   
Step 2. Wait for Aziraphale's corporation to be an adult.   
Step 3. Swoop in, tell Aziraphale the same thing he'd believed in 1793.[86]  
Step 4. Surprise, here's a bookshop.  
Step 5. Look, an engagement ring and a tiny little wedding anywhere except in a church.  
Step 6. Be together.

Very simple, easy, perfect plan. In hindsight, Step 3 should've included some sort of familial backstory, but one hadn't been needed in 1793. Then again, families were _constantly_ dying in 1793. Humans lived all sorts of long lives nowadays, which was great, really, but _fuck_. 

Unfortunately, every step of his very simple, easy, perfect plan had been muddled from the start. 

Step 1. Can't find Aziraphale because his angeldom is masked somehow.   
Step 2. Can't wait for Aziraphale to grow because, well, Crowley hadn't been about to let _anyone_ hurt his angel in any fashion.   
Step 3. Can't have a job at fifteen, or could you? He needed to do some research.   
Step 4. Ehhh, still not ruined there. One out of six steps not ruined.   
Step 5. Not enough time for the politics to catch up. Was sodomy still a hangable offense? Definitely more research needed there. He couldn't recall the last time someone had been hung for anything in London, though.   
Step 6. Alright, two. Two out of six steps weren't ruined. Grand. 

_Now what?_

He kept a safe distance from Aziraphale's chaperoned group, eyeing his angel and the woman who'd scolded him all of three seconds before giving up with a sigh and telling him not to do it again. Even masked, it was difficult for a human to be angry with an angel. Though he had to wonder if it was masked only from him somehow? All demons? It made sense if it was the whole lot. Official word was, apparently, that Aziraphale's discorporations were from demonic hands rather than angelic ones.[87]

He didn't know how Aziraphale would feel about him phrasing it quite like that, but he did know he could make him happy in this life. Or at the very least, he knew he'd try. Aziraphale wanted one time, one chance to be loved, and maybe most of Crowley's plan had been tossed out the window, but he'd been changing plans and moving to his own rhythm as long as he'd existed. The stars overhead were nightly proof of that. 

So he could handle this, surely. When did adulthood happen nowadays? Eighteen? Three years, then, before he needed a new plan and it gave him plenty of time to do some research. 

Moreover, the muffling of his angeldom made needing holy water a moot point. Demons wouldn't be bothering them. They never knew when Crowley had a human friend, few and far between as those were, so he wasn't worried. It was Heaven that would potentially cause problems, but he had his Hellfire and, well, he knew how to dodge a smiting. 

Probably. 

Maybe. 

He briefly, gently bit his lip. He could absolutely dodge a smiting. Yes.[88] But it wouldn't come to that.[89] He had two out of six points of his plan that were still good and the rest were semi-salvageable or just in need of some rearranging. He'd handled worse.[90]

And he’d handle everything he had to in order to make sure Aziraphale got what he’d asked for.

\----

Aziraphale knew he was following. He didn’t know Crowley was fretting, though, his own heart beating out of rhythm in his chest and his palms only just starting to sweat. A typical, normal reaction to anticipation or nerves or, well, a combination of both. Could he be blamed for it? An attractive boy had rescued him and his book, then protected him through the remainder of the concert, had openly and bluntly flirted with him, and then had asked for a date. 

If Aziraphale didn't find sweating so unpleasant, more than just his palms would. Most things he found unpleasant, thankfully, didn't seem to ever happen to him. Good fortune, he supposed, and blessings he was very grateful for.[91] He considered himself to be religious the way a blind person would consider the self unable to see. It was simply _there_ and unchanging. 

Did that mean he believed the Bible to be wholly accurate? Heavens, no. A book ultimately written by humans and translated multiple times over thousands of years was bound to have inaccuracies. For example, he couldn't get through Genesis without feeling as if things weren't quite right or that something was missing.[92] So, really, the book was a decent enough guideline but certainly not worth all the mayhem and fighting people got up to in defense of it. 

Nothing, to him, was worth all _that_. 

But it was another thing he often got into trouble about. A Christian education was important in his program, but he'd lost track of how many times he'd gotten sent out of the room for asking questions or pointing out clear mis-translations and bias. Also by referring to the Almighty with female pronouns, as if that was _disrespectful_. What about being a woman was disrespectful? What about the concept of gender, at _all_ , would matter to the Lord? 

World and local history got him in just as much trouble. He tended to write in answers on multiple choice tests or go on rambling tirades in short answer spaces about things he was told were not true, but felt so real. He'd written about a witch once, one Agnes Nutter, and her book of prophecy and had gotten in such trouble for it. Even _after_ it had been proven that she had existed, he'd been forbidden from visiting the library for three terrible weeks because he was obviously getting into inappropriate literature.

Maybe he was reading above age level in some, ah, questionable genres, but the childrens' and young adult books were so often _dull_. Jane Austen and Oscar Wilde wrote far more fascinating things. And the one Georgette Heyer book their library laid claim to had been read and reread so many times, it was a miracle it hadn't fallen apart yet. Never checked out, no, the adults around him would've been scandalized, but he'd been utterly charmed and wanted to get his hands on more. On anything and everything. 

At least he didn't get into as _much_ trouble in reading classes, though he didn't appreciate how often his opinions were ignored. The only class he was actually in trouble due to simple inability was maths. Miserable, pointless maths. Especially as of late. Did anyone really _need_ to know so much about triangles?

School and his difficulties in it were the driving force behind his Pathway Plan and his decision to leave the home at sixteen. He'd had more than enough of “proper education,” thank you kindly, and the idea of staying any longer than absolutely necessary was unpleasant. Being alone was just as upsetting, but was preferable in too many ways. 

“Ezra, we're ordering pizza. Want anything?” Someone poked him and he blinked, attention turning towards the impatient Tiffany. 

“Pardon?” 

“Pi. Zza. What one topping did you want? We're doing one cheese and one pepperoni.”

“Oh. Ah. Nothing for me, thank you.”

That garnered quite the _look_ , and Aziraphale tugged self-consciously at his tartan-patterned sweater vest. If he had a bowtie, he'd tug at that too. “You? _You_ don't want anything to eat.”

How terribly rude.[93] “It- Well, it's been a very long night. It isn't healthy to eat so late.” What would even be open at this hour? Where would Crowley take him? he wondered, then wondered why he wasn't more ill at ease with the whole situation. It was a tad suspect, wasn't it? Having a stranger who spoke the language following them when he knew full well that Aziraphale didn't speak the language and was, for all intents and purposes, alone in the world was dangerous. It would be very easy to whisk him away, but... 

He watched him slip into the lobby, sunglasses still over his eyes and somehow not blending in with the crowd at all. No one else seemed to notice him, but Aziraphale noticed nothing else. 

It was suspect and dangerous and, should anyone ever ask him if this was wise, he would say no, no, and no. It was not safe for anyone to do this, and he was setting a horrible example for even entertaining the idea. As he followed the others into the elevator, he loudly said, “Third floor?” as he pressed the button and didn't miss Crowley's grin. He hoped Crowley saw his answering smile before the doors closed. 

He knew Crowley beat them to the third floor, though he couldn't imagine how. He didn't even look sweaty when Aziraphale caught a peek of him in the stairwell when he opened the door and gave a quick wave. Aziraphale hadn't been able to wave back, but he had needed to school away the absolute delight on his face in order to make his stuttered, clear lie of “I'm not feeling particularly well” believable. More believable, anyway. He so rarely lied and had never not felt well in his life, so Ms. Taylor shooed him to his room and told him to lie down. 

He waited until he could hear them ordering pizza, talking over each other and gushing over the concert and not mentioning him at all, before he made his way to the door. 

He opened it to find Crowley, gasping in surprise. “Oh! I- Oh, you silly thing, get in here.”

He didn't have to pull him in, Crowley wandering through the doorway with his hands in his jacket pockets and his smile bright and delighted and a little wicked. “Hi, dove.”

Aziraphale’s heart soared. “Hello. Do be quiet, my dear. The walls are rather unfortunately thin.”

“Well, wasn't planning on staying long. Just wanted to see where you were stuck.”

“I wouldn't say _stuck_.” He would absolutely say stuck. “Though there was a rather lovely mistake in booking, apparently.”

“Oh?”

“I have this room all to myself instead of having to share with Bradley.”

Crowley grinned. “Do we not like Bradley?” 

Not even a smidge. He was brusque, rude, likened women and girls to objects in need of _conquest_ , and would probably not succeed with his Pathway Plan. The only thing he didn't do was call Aziraphale rude names because one singular instance of that had ensured it would _never_ happen again. 

“We have nothing against Bradley. I would simply prefer not to stay in the same room alone with him lest he... attempts a prank.”

Crowley nodded. “Right. Don't like Bradley. The others?” 

It was difficult to know, really, if he was thrilled to be understood so easily or worried. “They're all fine, lovely young ladies, Crowley. None of them have let Bradley court them.”

Which had no bearing, at all, on whether or not he tolerated them. They were fine and their feelings on Bradley and desire to bring Aziraphale in on “the gossip” because his feelings matched theirs hardly mattered. He wasn't catty with them, just... honest. It was Bradley's fault, really, for doing terrible things in the first place. 

Crowley smiled and turned away from him to wander to the window. Just the night before, prior to Ms. Taylor coming in with the wonderful news that they wouldn't be sharing a room, Bradley had complained about the window being stuck. For Crowley, it opened with ease. “Luckily, you've got fire escape access. None of 'em will even know you've gone. Come on.”

“Down the fire escape?” Aziraphale hurried over, barely having any time to protest before Crowley's lithe frame disappeared through the window. 

He grinned, hand offered and grin bold. “Down the fire escape. Come on, dove. Let's have some fun, you and me.”

It felt like he'd been waiting for such an offer for centuries. Longer, even. “Crowley, this is going to be an odd sort of question. But how do you feel about reincarnation?” 

Crowley studied him for too long, grin slipping but hand staying out. Always out, always waiting. Aziraphale felt, _knew_ , that Anthony Crowley would wait as long as Aziraphale needed him to. “I've... mixed feelings.”

“Yes,” he agreed, and slipped his hand into Crowley's, letting himself be led outside. Out of the hotel, out from under Ms. Taylor's watching eye, and out from under the press of rules. It was fanciful and ludicrous and wild, but the street lamps glowed against dark lenses and Crowley's grip was strong when he helped Aziraphale from the ladder to the alley below. 

And he didn't let go. Aziraphale laid his hands on Crowley’s arms, gazing up at him, wondering if Crowley could possibly feel the same sense of _finally_ as he did. The bizarre, certain feeling of being exactly where he wanted to be only because of the person he was with. Aziraphale thought, hoped, wondered if Crowley might kiss him right there in a dark alley under the stars, but he smiled, squeezed his hips, and stepped away. 

“Dinner?” 

“Yes.” It was a little breathless, and he hoped the odd lighting and shadows would hide the color that filled his cheeks. “Ah. Whatever's open this time of night.”

“Anything you want, Aziraphale.”

Sometimes, though he never said this aloud, it felt as if he could always have whatever he wanted. He only had to want it hard enough. Like Bradley the night before. He'd had himself convinced that he could tolerate two nights of close quarters with him right up until, “I wager there'll be some bints gagging for it tomorrow, eh?” And Aziraphale had wanted him gone so bad, he had been ten minutes later. 

He didn't know that Crowley's sudden appearance amounted to the same thing, not when the connection felt stronger than a wish come true, but he was hardly one to pass on a blessing. “I believe we've already made some decent headway there, don't you?” 

Crowley laughed, jerking his head towards the mouth of the alley, and Aziraphale quickly and easily fell into step alongside his long-legged saunter. It shouldn't have been as simple as it was, but it seemed like they'd walked together before, a long time ago in a different city. He could almost feel the phantom press of a hand against the small of his back, but Crowley's hands were in his pockets. It had been crowded, but the sun had been high. “Crêpes.”

“Wot.”

“Oh! I'm sorry, I- I don't know where that came from.” Smile nervous, Aziraphale wiped his palms against his trousers and then clasped them behind his back to keep from fidgeting. “I've never even had crêpes.”

Crowley nodded, lips twisted into something pensive. “We'll have to go to Paris. I'm told it's the only place to get decent ones.”

“Who on Earth told you that?” Though he didn't disagree. It seemed appropriate to find the best of something at its place of origin. 

Instead of answering, Crowley smiled. “Schnitzel and sachertorte are as classic as you can get in Vienna.”

“Oh, those do sound scrummy.” Sachertorte in particular. A dense chocolate sponge would be lovely, desserts something he was so rarely treated to. At least not _wonderful_ desserts. “Or, perhaps, Austrian goulash with dumplings?” 

“Apple strudel?” 

“Apple strudel,” he sighed. “That sounds absolutely lovely. How will I choose?” 

“You won't have to,” Crowley promised, and Aziraphale somehow didn't doubt him. 

An hour later, tucked in a booth of a restaurant that Crowley had guided him to - one whose printed hours did not seem accurate as the two of them were promptly and efficiently served - Aziraphale’s lack of doubt proved wise. He hadn't had to choose between the two dishes or the two desserts. They'd shared them and, while Aziraphale certainly noticed his companion's lack of appetite, he didn't comment on it. He enjoyed eating the better part of their meals, stomach as bottomless as he expected it to be. 

He hadn't eaten since lunch, after all, and he'd been feeling peckish even before the concert. Of course he'd be hungry. 

Though, more than food alone, conversation amused and fascinated. The poor dear had clearly grown up quite isolated from much of the world. He seemed ignorant to basic things up to and including the current year. He'd get them mixed up now and again, to Aziraphale's eternal amusement. The dear boy was obviously lonely and in need of some companionship, and Aziraphale was happy to provide some. He only hoped he didn't bore this mysterious young man. 

Though, it seemed, he had questions about every little thing Aziraphale said, so perhaps boredom was a ways off yet. 

“Hang on, what the devil is a Pathway Plan?” 

“It's a, uh, a set of goals and steps for me to accomplish and follow for the next year until I can be released from care.”

“Pathway Plan,” he grumbled. “Why would you need to _plan_ anything?” 

“It's important to demonstrate that one can be a functional, helpful member of society.” 

“That sentence was neither.” 

Aziraphale fixed him with a highly unimpressed look, but Crowley hardly seemed insulted. In fact, he was rather amused. It was annoying. Crowley, he decided, could be very annoying.

Ultimately, as the night wore on, that was quite a relief. He wasn’t some flawless, dashing knight in a novel. He had flaws: annoying, devilish, sheltered - though Crowley had tossed his head back and _cackled_ at the word when Aziraphale had rather snobbishly said it - and just filled with questions. While asking questions wasn’t necessarily a _flaw_ , he was incredibly nosy and hardly gave anything back.

By the time Crowley was walking him back to the hotel, he only knew that he spent most of his time in a flat in Mayfair,[94] didn’t go to school, didn’t particularly have aspirations for his future, and that he didn’t read. He strongly suspected the last thing to be a lie as he’d recognized every single author Aziraphale had worked into the conversation, but the fact that he said it at all, well... He was a little bit of a liar, which should’ve been a flaw in Aziraphale’s list, but he didn’t say them with malicious intent. It seemed more like he was protecting himself.

Who, Aziraphale wondered, had hurt him so badly that he felt the need to wrap himself up in lies? Claim to not be a kind person when Aziraphale had called him that? If he asked, he doubted he would get an honest answer so left it be. One day, perhaps Crowley would feel safe enough to be truthful.

“When will you return to London?” he wondered, hesitating on the fire escape outside his window.

“Ehh, probably tomorrow. Same as you.”

“Well, where are you staying?”

“Haven’t decided yet.”

Another flaw, Aziraphale thought, was that Crowley was truly terrible at making plans.[95] Sowing the seeds of his own destruction, to be frank. It was already “tomorrow,” midnight behind them, and surely no hotel would have an available room. Certainly besides, Aziraphale couldn’t bear the thought of Crowley having to wander Vienna without a place to stay. “You’ll stay here,” he decided and climbed through the window.

“Do what?”

“Come along, my dear. No arguments now. If you don’t have a room, you mustn’t even have fresh clothes or a toothbrush. And how will you accomplish anything with your wild hair come morning without a comb?”

“Pockets,” he said after a moment. “Toothbrush and comb, I mean. Didn’t think about clothes so much.”

Aziraphale shook his head, smile fond. “Silly thing. Come inside. You can shower and sleep in the extra bed so long as you’re out before Ms. Taylor comes knocking at nine.”

He watched Crowley hesitate, then his smile brightened when those long legs swung into the window. It closed behind him and he sent Aziraphale a curious look. Or at least it felt curious. He was still wearing those dark sunglasses, but they hadn’t seemed to impede his vision and did look rather dashing on him. Aziraphale had yet to question them.

“You serious?”

“There’s a second bed right here, and I’ve very much enjoyed our, ah, date.” Because he was flawed, imperfect, and wonderful just the same. Witty, playful, intelligent beyond the peers Aziraphale was used to associating with, secretly very sweet, and trustworthy. A liar he may have been, but Aziraphale felt as if he could trust Crowley with his life. Surely, he could trust him for one night. “Besides, I would just have an awful night, thinking of you wandering about with nowhere to stay. Much better that you remain here.”

“Alright, dove, I’ll hang around. Do I really have to sleep in the second bed?”

Aziraphale gasped and swatted at him. “None of that, you absolute devil. Don’t make me regret my offer.”

“Never.” He grinned, and Aziraphale beamed.

His smile didn’t seem to leave, the pair of them staying up far too late, sharing whispers and laughter in the narrow space between their beds. Crowley’s sunglasses never left his face, and Aziraphale never questioned them.

Then, at 8:59AM, Crowley kissed his cheek and disappeared out the window. He was still blushing when he opened the door for Ms. Taylor and took the medication she offered for his “fever.” Though it was hardly a fever that warmed him. It was that he, well... Good Heavens, he had a beau.

* * *

* * *

### Footnotes

84. _He'd once convinced three juvenile delinquents in his class to volunteer their weekends at the local soup kitchen after they’d tried to steal his lunch in an attempt to better their meager lives and gain some empathy for those who didn’t know where their next meal would come from. Not to mention that one didn’t simply scarf down a gravlax and dill sandwich as if it was nothing more than cheese and pickle. It was barbaric. They soon saw the error of their ways. One even went on to culinary school and was hired on as a chef at the Ritz in his later years, the second joined the monastery to continue ‘giving back and serving the community,’ and the third would one day shake hands with Paul Hollywood on national television, but Aziraphale didn’t know any of those things yet. Also, this is skimmingthesurface, aka Stephanie, hi :)_↩

85. _Smooth_ 😎 _\- Stephanie_ #He is not. Get out of my footnotes. - Syl↩

86. That is, that he worked for the Crown and would have to pop in and out occasionally.↩

87. Though Crowley did have to wonder just which Archangel would toss that sort of protection on him. Who was in on this punishment besides Gabriel and Sandalphon?↩

88. No.↩

89. It might.↩

90. We'll just ignore the last time Crowley had any direct dealings with Heaven. For his sake. # _Let’s just say he tried to take one of the hoverboards down the stairs. Obviously it didn’t end well._ #I said get out of my footnotes, troublemaker. # _No._↩

91. An angel's prayers were handled very differently from a human's, so Aziraphale's would be filtered accordingly and never made it to Her. The Metatron, as a result, simply thought Aziraphale odd due to his creation coming after the Fall and directed his prayers to a filing cabinet in Michael's office so he wouldn’t have to hear them anymore.↩

92. For that matter, the story of Noah's Ark always made him unbearably sad. He also very privately had a fear of drowning, but that was... irrational. Probably.↩

93. Not that she was wrong to be surprised, but really.↩

94. Which was a lie, of course, as most of Crowley’s time was spent at a bookshop in Soho. But we already know that, don’t we? # _Mooning on the ceiling._ #I give up, lol.↩

95. _Fact._ #...I can’t even say anything to this. It’s just accurate.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I normally try to do my best - particularly with Stephanie helping me - to do accurate and complete research, it was exceptionally difficult to find orphanage/group home standards regarding the 80s. [This is where](https://www.childrenscommissioner.gov.uk/help-at-hand/leaving-care-your-rights/#:~:text=Leaving%20care%20means%20that%20you,your%20Local%20Authority%20Children's%20Services.&text=When%20you%20leave%20care%20Children's,Adviser%2C%20until%20you%20are%2025.) most of my information on Aziraphale's situation has come from, therefore, and it's much more current.
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [SylWritesStuff](https://sylwritesstuff.tumblr.com/) and my lovely beta at [skimmingmilk](https://skimmingmilk.tumblr.com/).


	10. A Hundred Wishes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letters are exchanged, and an overdue romance blooms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Our lovely song~](https://open.spotify.com/track/16xNZlLF8Ycv82QUAEneF7?si=fRWMw8ilTo2SO75_tnWJVQ)  
> Thanks again to [SkimmingTheSurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface) for being a wonderful beta, even through broken sleep schedules and work! :D

_Beneath my armor lies a heart more fragile than glass.  
_ _Like water kissing sky forming clouds,  
_ _like desert meeting wind that echos sadness carried for a thousand miles,  
_ _we shall embark on a journey shared when our paths cross each lifetime.  
_ _The moment I met you again,  
_ _your eyes became the windows of eternity._

― Tina Guo

* * *

**_1984  
_** **_Various UK Locales_ **

_Dear Crowley,_

_It’s me, Aziraphale. I hope this letter finds you well, my dear. At the time of writing, it’s been a full week since we last spoke. I’m afraid I haven’t had a moment’s peace, but that’s quite typical here. The younger children flock to me, particularly when they’re newly arrived, and I haven’t the heart to send them away._

_But that’s here, not there. That is, it isn't anything you need concern yourself with. I saw you on the train heading to Belgium, you know. I truly haven’t the faintest idea how you managed to get your hair to puff so much when it wasn’t teased at all when you escaped. I saw you again on the ferry, and I wish I had gotten the opportunity to chat with you again. I’m afraid Brittany mentioned you to the other young ladies, and they’ve been pestering me something terrible about you._

_I told them we met very briefly and hardly knew each other, but I have the distinct impression that they did not believe a single word. Unfortunately, I’m a wretched liar._

_Then again, I suppose I hardly know what to say about that night. It felt a bit like a whirlwind. A very pleasant one, mind you, but I’ve never been so thoroughly tempted into such reckless behavior. I would’ve been in quite a lot of trouble had I been caught. More so than in my classes, which continue to trudge right along and be absolutely miserable. Intelligence should not be measured by test scores, I should think. This argument will probably not help my history grade. Nor maths._

_Anyway, I’m told the concert was truly wonderful and have had to suffer through multiple replays of a Queen cassette tape. It doesn’t have the love song I liked. The one about finding somebody to love? I hope you recall. Do they have other songs with more romantic leanings? None at all are on the cassette tape Tiffany has (barring the one about breaking free, though that one is quite heartbreaking), and when I asked her the same question she giggled at me. Not at all the sort of reaction I was expecting. But I thought you might know and would tell me? Since you clearly enjoy the band. Don’t get your hopes up that I’ll like any of them, however; I’m merely attempting to expand my musical horizons._

_I’m told it will help in any endeavors to make friends in future, per my Pathway Plan. I’m told I’m far too isolated, but is it my fault that my peers are unable to appreciate the brilliance of Mozart or the vast oeuvre left behind by Schubert? They are the classics for a reason. What do you think?_

_Write soon, won’t you?_

_Yours,_

_Aziraphale Fell_

_P.s. I have decided to attempt guessing your eye color since you kept them hidden from me all night long. Blue?_

\--

_Aziraphale,_

_You are absolutely ridiculous. If they’re bothering you, send them away anyway. What do they even want with you? Do you even LIKE kids?_

_I saw you too, and I’ve got my ways. My hair listens to me. And it wasn’t puffed. It was teased. Stylishly._

_Wish you’d been able to get away from them for a chat too. It was a good night, wasn’t it? And you should just tell them the truth. That you went on a date with me and all. They wouldn’t believe you anyway, would they, and then they might leave you alone. If that’s what you’re aiming for. I know you’re a shit liar. One of the things I like/dislike about you._

_I could tempt you into more whirlwinds, if you like. Tell me when you’re free or when your next trip is. Those happen a lot? Maybe I should donate more concert tickets or something._

_Maths is shit, history is whitewashed with everyone being too damned lazy to do the basic research needed to disprove it. Bollocks to school and any teachers who look at you like you aren’t clever._

_Song you mean is “Somebody to Love.” And, yeah, there’s been a few love songs. Tossed them on the A side of a cassette for you. B side’s got some of the classical stuff I like, since you want to know what I think and all. Mozart’s good. He was a wild bloke. If you want, I could send you another cassette with other music I like? My car likes playing Queen, but I’ve got a couple other favorites. You don’t have to like them. And I’ll make sure the B side’s got stuff you’ll actually definitely like._

_Do you like movies?_

_What books have you been reading? Can I send you one sometime? Don’t know what all the rules are with sending gifts and whatever. Human rules are annoying._

_With that stupid plan thing. Did you really mean you’d be out on your own next year? When? Where are you thinking you’ll go?_

_Crowley_

_P.s. Wrong. Try again, dove._

\--

_Dear Crowley,_

_You’re the ridiculous one. Honestly. Send children away? They’re hardly causing offence. They just want a friendly person to listen to them. That’s all I do. And then I pray for them, and their problems get resolved. It’s all very efficient, and I do not mind at all that people only talk to me so I will help them._

_Clean, well-behaved children are very likeable._

_You teased it to a puff, my dear. Stylish or not, that’s the most apt description for it. It shouldn’t be taken as offence, though. Please don’t misunderstand, Crowley. I quite like your hair. It’s a very bold sort of color, isn’t it? Nothing at all like mine, which does not listen to me and enjoys curling however it pleases._

_It was a lovely night, and I’m very glad you also enjoyed it. I did try the truth and you were correct. They didn’t believe me, which is a tad insulting. I can be impulsive and occasionally break the rules. Not the more serious, sensible, correct rules, mind, but some of the less serious ones. Besides, Ms. Taylor never said we weren’t allowed to leave via the fire escape without permission or talk to persons at the concert. As those were not rules - human or otherwise (dare I ask?) - I didn’t do anything wrong in leaving with you._

_As much as I would adore another whirlwind with you (or shall we drop the metaphor and call it a date?) I do not know when I’ll be free next. And please don’t spend your money on concert tickets, you silly thing. If anything needs funding, it’s the cafeteria. It’s abysmal on the best days, borderline inedible on the worst. Others never seem to find fault in it, but have these chefs never heard of salt or spice? My suggestions always fall on deaf ears, which is thoroughly frustrating. I’m no longer a child._

_I won’t dignify your uncouth attitude towards school and educators with the vitriol you're attempting to inspire, but I do appreciate that you think me clever. You are as well, my dear. You’re very intelligent, despite your lack of thorough education._

_Now thank you very much for the music! I do not enjoy all of their romantic songs, but the one about old-fashioned lover boys was delightful. I’ve found myself fast-forwarding the cassette to listen to that one multiple times, and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed Side B. Vivaldi was a lovely surprise, as was Chopin. I thought for sure you would only put Mozart and Schubert as they were the only two I can recall mentioning. You've surprised me yet again, my dear._

_So I would love to know what other music you like, and am thoroughly intrigued by what you may assume I would enjoy._

_As for your litany of questions..._

_I'm not sure how I feel about most current films as I rarely have the opportunity to watch any, but I enjoy musicals and noirs. Spy films and capers and the like intrigue me. I'd rather read, I think, but I would go to a film with you._

_I've been reading a great number of things. I'm spending today in the library, as a matter of fact, and am taking the time to compose a letter to you. I've discovered Ian Fleming novels, which have been turned into some films, haven't they? Have you seen any of them, and what was your opinion?_

_As to sending me a book, that's alright. I would be delighted. Our mail is private now that I'm fifteen, and I'd be very curious to know what you think I would like after only one evening together. Is it odd to say that it didn't feel as if I've only known you the one night? It feels far longer, Crowley. Do your mixed feelings on reincarnation include a belief in it? As I grow older, I wonder._

_The Pathway Plan is not stupid. It's a vital part of the process. So, yes, I'll be out next year. I'm still deciding on where exactly to go, but the Local Authority will provide a stipend and an allowance of sorts. I could go anywhere._

_Yours,_

_Aziraphale Fell_

_P.s. You could, at the very least, provide a hint. Foul fiend. (I write that with affection. Tone is difficult to convey via letter, particularly when jotting down something that could possibly be insulting.) Perhaps they're green? It just seemed terribly obvious with your hair to guess that first. If they are green, I'm sure they're lovely._

\--

_Aziraphale,_

_You're too interesting to only be some problem solver. I still think you're ridiculous. I like kids, for the record. They're messy and impolite and honest. They've got all these decisions in their future and that interests me. That being said, I don't WANT kids. More like they're pets or mobile art._

_I like that your hair curls however it likes. Doesn't need to be in style. You're like a puffy lamb, if we're going to use words like puff of all things._

_You're not a rule breaker. You're a rule circumnavigator. They're probably right not to believe you, but I wouldn't take it as an insult were I you. Just take it as you being too decent to be thought of as someone who'd do wrong. No one's ever made that mistake about me. Everyone always thinks I'm lying by default, so it's easier to get away with things._

_What if I just popped in and took you out one day? We'll see a movie, go for a meal. Do something else if you're up for it._

_Attached another cassette. Tell me what you think. About the book too._

_I don't really know much about musicals. Except “Sound of Music.” Could do without that one._

_I've seen every single James Bond film. Connery's the best of them by far even though the bastard changed the Bentley to an Aston Martin and Ian hated the idea of him playing the character. He came 'round. Moore's not so bad, though. Funnier in a more obvious way than a tongue-in-cheek one. Suppose it's smart of the screenwriters to mould Bond's personality around the actors but I dunno how Ian would've reacted. Bond's not his alone anymore._

_I think that's its own version of reincarnation. People aren't like books or films or plays, exactly, but they are characters. If you say your odder memories are from past lives, I'd accept that. It's as reasonable as anything else, dove. I wouldn't say I don't believe in it, but I dislike it. More trouble than just having the one to enjoy._

_How long would it take me to convince you to come to Mayfair next year?_

_Crowley_

_P.s. Not green either and no hints. Best of luck. I call you ridiculous with the same fondness so I know what you mean. Don't work yourself up about my feelings._

_P.p.s. Call me sometime._

\----

He probably hadn't meant immediately,[96] but Aziraphale couldn't contain himself. He hadn't listened to the cassette, hadn't read a word of the letter proper. He'd seen the book and the numbers at the bottom of the paper and he'd hurried clear across the building to get access to the telephones. He'd never once asked to use one before, so he'd been given a booth without fuss and instructions on how to dial. 

He'd end up having to chat with his adviser about the unexpected call, which would delve into a discussion about Crowley and how they'd come to be, ah, pen pals. But that was neither here nor there. He was too excited, thrilled, overwhelmed. Crowley had given him a _book_ and it was of his _favorites_. 

“Anthony,” was the answer and Aziraphale squeezed the telephone receiver. 

“ _Crowley_. It's me, Aziraphale.”

He could almost hear the smile, though it was probably his own wiggling delight being transferred across the airwaves. Or however it was telephones worked. Science was also not one of his best subjects. “Hi, dove. Get the package?”

“Is this a _first edition_ A.A. Milne?” he asked, voice a breathless rush. 

Crowley chuckled, and Aziraphale could hear something shifting in the background. Glass against wood, perhaps, and there was music behind him. Bach, he realized with another giddy wiggle. “Yup. Thought if you were being surrounded by kids, you could read to them. Sometimes a distraction's as good as an ear.”

“Oh,” he sighed, twisting the cord around his hand. “That's so terribly thoughtful, my dear. But a first edition! How ever did you get your hands on one?” 

“I've got my ways. Really, I've got one Heaven of a book collection. I don't get much use out of them, mind, but I knew you would.”

“That's so incredibly sweet of you, but you shouldn't have. The worth of something like this-” 

“Are you going to read it?” 

“Well, yes, but-” 

“Then I don't care.”[97]

The interruptions were rude, but the gesture was sweet and he seemed genuine. Perhaps he should've read the letter first. Cradling the receiver between his ear and shoulder, he sat in a corner of the booth and unfolded the letter properly. The cassette was still in his room. “Well, I still say there was no need. I would've been happy with almost anything.”

“I'll save almost anything for next time. Get the tape too?” 

“The cassette? It's in my room. I haven't listened. As a matter of fact, I, ah, well, you see... Um.”

“Got excited by the sight of the book, did you?” 

“Possibly.”

Crowley laughed, some of Aziraphale's embarrassment fading under the sound of his rich, delighted cackle. Such a wonderful, unique sound. “S'fine, dove. Reading it now?” 

“Skimming it.”

“Mm. Don't think you can get out of writing back just 'cause we're on the phone.”

“Oh, of course not. I very much enjoy writing you. You're not upset that it takes me some time to respond?” 

“Nah. S'fine, dove. Only takes a couple of days and you don't seem to get much free time.”

“Oh, no, not really.” Aziraphale’s gaze lingered on the words he'd written, answers ready to spill out, but most of it could wait. The date, though... “You can't just pop in, but you could... make an appointment. To come see me, I mean. For another, ah, another... Another date.”

“An appointment.”

“Mmhm. They'll need your identification, should you have one. You do, don't you?” 

“Course. Got a car, too.”

“You can drive?” 

“Yup.”

“You're seventeen?” 

“ _No_.”

Aziraphale tapped the page, brows drawing together. “Then you're sixteen? You've applied for PIP?” 

There was a long silence, suspiciously long, before Crowley said, “Mmnn, yeah.” 

“Are you lying to me?” 

“No! I've got a car, I'm allowed to drive it. It's just _me_ , Aziraphale. I needed it.”

“I, ah, um, I assumed you had servants. You said you were raised by them?” 

“A nanny isn't a servant. She was a no-nonsense Scotswoman who knew what she was about, and once I was old enough, she left. Like a nanny should do.”[98]

Aziraphale hummed, not quite convinced about the vehicle or the legality of Crowley behind the wheel of one. But he supposed he should've asked about the age difference between them. He'd assumed, somehow, that Crowley was older, but he hadn't even thought to question how much so. 

“Well, in any case, you'll have your identification card photocopied and placed into the filing system before they'll let you take me anywhere. But if you know when, I can let my adviser know and we can be ready for you.”

“Or we just sneak out.”

“Crowley, please, don't be ridiculous. I- Oh, you dislike _Sound of Music_ too?” 

“ _Too_? Thought that sort of thing would be right up your alley. It's about a singing nun who falls in love and all that.”

It was a fair assumption to make. But the very first time he'd seen it, it had felt like the hundredth.[99] The mountain climbing song, especially, had felt more like an unpleasant recitation at a board meeting than actual music. “It has... pleasant moments and the overall tale is charming. I will never watch it again if I don't have to.”

“I'll keep that in mind. Was that a no to sneaking out?” 

“Yes,” he replied firmly, but melted when he saw the last question before his signature. Oh. He was shockingly romantic, wasn't he? “Following the rules for this may go a ways towards, um, convincing me.”

“To come to Mayfair?” 

“It's possible.”

“Fine, alright. Come 'round next week, shall I?” 

Aziraphale’s heart fluttered. “Saturday?” 

“Saturday. Ten too soon? We'll do lunch.”

“That sounds wonderful.”

“Grand. Ten Saturday. I'll need an ID. Blegh. Anything else?” 

“No, it's rather simple besides. My adviser may ask you a question or two. You know, about how we met and what your intentions are?” 

The scoff almost made him giggle. “ _Intentions_. We met at the concert, I gave you my address, we've been writing, and now I want to get you out of a bloody depressing orphanage for a few hours. What sort of _intentions_ is she looking for? Whether or not I'm going to bring you back?”[100]

“Well. It's... a Christian group home.”

“Shocking.”

Aziraphale wasn't sure where the sarcasm came from, but he shook his head. “She'll want to know that, er, that it's... platonic. Our outing.”

“Two seconds.”

“Wha-”

His question was cut off by a thump, and the music became a little clearer. It didn't _completely_ muffle the rather overdramatic fit he could hear Crowley throwing for several more than two seconds,[101] but he was smiling to himself by the time the phone was picked back up. “Fine. I'll lie and tell her it's platonic.”

He'd _lie_ and he was frustrated over having to. Aziraphale wiggled in place, heart swelling so much it was sure to burst. What an absolute darling this troublemaker was. “Thank you. Now I should get off the telephone now. I'll listen to the cassette and write you while I have the time. I'll see you on Saturday.”

“Right. I'll be there.”

“Wonderful. I'm truly looking forward to it, my dear. Please don't forget your identification.”

“I won't. Later, Aziraphale.”

“Mind how you go.” He was mid-wiggle, so pleased by the way Crowley said his name, that he almost forgot to ask, “Oh! I wanted to know. Ah. Before I forget again. Now that you've given me three gifts so far, I want to give you something in return. I was also hoping to know when your birthday was so I could-” 

Crowley made a strangled sound and the line went dead. Aziraphale blinked, lips pursing. That was... peculiar, he settled on. It was several other things as well,[102] but peculiar seemed to be the most polite. One of them had to be polite, it seemed. 

He gathered his things and rose, then hung up the phone. As he was stepping out of the booth, it rang. Curious. He glanced towards the front, then back at the phone before answering it with a hesitant, “Hello?” 

“December 1st.”[103]

How on Earth, he wondered, had Crowley been able to call back? But his curiosity was overruled by relief and simple pleasure. “Your birthday?” 

“Yeah. Yes. Alright?” 

“Then you're nearly seventeen?”

“Apparently.”

“Don't be so sarcastic, dearest. I'll mark it on my calendar. But I do have to go now, I'm afraid. Pip-pip.”

“Yeah. Saturday.”

“Saturday,” he agreed with a happy sigh, and he ended the call this time. Much better. 

Although he did have a new question. 

\----

“What made you hang up? When I asked your birthday.”

Crowley didn't say anything for a long moment, the radio pumping out the B side of the second cassette. He'd been very right about what Aziraphale might enjoy, so he'd decided to bring it along. Of course, he also had every intention of taking it right back after thanks to Crowley’s warning over his car eating tapes after two weeks. 

“Tripped over a plant.”

“What?”

“I have a lot of plants, and I tripped. Hung up by accident.”[104]

Aziraphale managed, only just, to not giggle. He could picture it far too easily. “Silly serpent. Your limbs are obviously longer than you know how to handle.”

“Oi! I'm handling everything just fine.”[105]

“Yes, I see. You really can drive.” And fast. Faster than Aziraphale was used to, the world speeding by his window. “What, ah, what's the speed limit?” 

“The what?” 

“ _Crowley_!” 

“What? No, I'm- It's a joke,” he said and Aziraphale was very certain it was a lie. 

“If you get us killed, I'll never forgive you.” When Crowley glanced over, something in Aziraphale swelled and crested over. “ _Never_.”

“I'm not going to get us killed.” But he did ease off the accelerator, and Aziraphale let out a sigh of relief. The thing in him settled. 

“Thank you. Good Lord, my dear, we’re not indestructible.” There was a twinge, a small furrowing of Crowley’s brow and the smallest of grimaces before he smoothed it all away. Aziraphale reached out and gently patted his leg. “Don’t start feeling guilty now. Just drive safely and we’ll arrive when we arrive. Overall, I do feel quite safe with you behind the wheel. I didn’t expect to.”

“'Ppreciate the vote of confidence, dove, really.”

“Well, I did preface it by saying I feel safe. Are we doing the speed limit now?” 

“No clue,” he admitted, but that only made Aziraphale relax further. He preferred honesty over bravado. 

“I suppose we'll know eventually. Speed demon,” he teased fondly and earned a grin in response. 

\----

_Dearest Crowley,_

_I very much enjoyed Saturday with you. Perhaps we could see a show at the West End next time? The cinema was fascinating, but I don't particularly believe the people two rows in front of us were pleased by your loud critical remarks. At least I was quieter, you wicked thing._

_I also liked your car. It reminded me of the Ian Fleming novels. Even the bullet hole stickers in your window seemed very James Bond-like. Have you read the books? You wrote about Mr. Fleming as though you knew him personally, but he passed in 1964 according to a biography I found in the library. I understand feeling that way towards authors whose tales I've enjoyed, so I'm quite curious._

_Perhaps we could watch one of the James Bond films together if you have one of those video home systems and videocassette recorders. I think I should, perhaps, see your flat before any decisions are made as to where I end up next year. (Not that I'm saying I have any plans to move in with you, dear boy. I'm only saying there are many places in London I may wish to move to. Or outside of London. I think I'd like to visit the coast one day.)_

_Have you always lived in Mayfair? You talk so little about yourself and I would truly like to know more._

_Yours truly,_

_Aziraphale Fell_

_P.s. You still haven't given me a hint, and you didn't take your sunglasses off at the cinema. If your eyes aren't delightfully unusual at this point, I'm going to be quite disappointed. Are they brown?_

_Additionally, there's no such thing as a post post script, you silly thing._

\----

Crowley drummed his fingers against his chest, reading and re-reading Aziraphale's latest letter. Shorter than normal as he'd written it the day after their date and, well, they'd talked quite a bit on that. Though the topics had definitely leaned more towards Aziraphale and his stupid Pathway Plan. He wanted a career involving books, but didn't know exactly what he wanted. The idea of owning a bookshop, when Crowley had oh, so casually suggested it, had been accepted with a bright smile. 

But then he'd sighed and had lamented over start-up costs and “dreams that feel as if they are stuck in a very narrow tube.”

“Pipe dreams, dove.”

“Ah, yes.”

Crowley's lips quirked. Just another little Aziraphale thing he adored. For someone so well-read, he could get lost in idioms. 

He'd also talked about travel and Crowley had a list for that. Paris, very unsurprisingly, topped it. They could go again as he’d wanted it 1800, now that there were fewer head cutting machines. They could go anywhere Aziraphale wanted, do anything he wanted, and Crowley didn't really see a need to talk about himself when Aziraphale was the focus. 

Sighing, he stood and walked down the wall. He was still, a week since they'd seen each other, a teenager. He'd decided to get used to it, this growing up like a human thing. After more than six thousand years of existing, his vessel probably appreciated some natural action. He'd gotten a kick out of sauntering into Hell like this the day before too, shutting down Hastur's sneer by letting Beelzebub know that humans were currently _terrified_ of teenagers. It wasn't even a lie. Not at all unique to the 1980s, but true.

Crowley didn't have a VCR or James Bond VHS tapes before he sat down, but he did by the time he finished penning the next letter. He had a couch, too, and an armchair. They weren't as sleek as he may have wanted them to be, but he didn't mind the buttery softness of the black leather or the plushness of the cushions. They reminded him of Aziraphale and would, with luck, meet his approval. 

Because whatever he said, this was going to be an angel's home the next year. It only gave him one year instead of three to make plans and get fully immersed in being a human, but he could manage it. An envelope wrapped itself around the letter, a pen addressing it on its own when Crowley rose to grab his spray bottle. It was time to rage at his plants, make sure they were properly hydrated and flourishing. 

It was only after a snap of the fingers had music pouring from his stereo that Crowley realized he'd done at least eleven very demonic and not at all human things in half as many minutes. 

Oh. 

Well. Maybe being a human would be a little more difficult than he thought.

Shit.

* * *

* * *

### Footnotes

96. Of course he'd meant immediately. There was only so much mooning on a ceiling one demon could do before he got bored.↩

97. It was Aziraphale's book anyway, taken off a shelf in the bookshop.↩

98. Crowley had finally done some bloody research on nannies and child rearing and he had Opinions. That doesn't mean he knows anything about PIP. Whoops.↩

99. Thousandth. Heaven hadn't wasted any time snapping up and twisting the movie around and, unfortunately, Aziraphale had still been in Heaven four years after its release. The insufferable thing had been a shockingly large reason behind him deciding to get to Earth as soon as possible.↩

100. He didn't particularly want to bring Aziraphale back, but he'd do what he had to.↩

101. It was a forty-seven second long fit. Mostly over the unfairness and stupidity of current humanity. Ancient civilizations hadn't been this damned uptight. His biggest gripe was, of course, that they should’ve just been together in Rome, and he was an idiot.↩

102. Rude, upsetting, rude, startling, rude, hurtful, rude...↩

103. Crowley miracled up a calendar and threw a dart at it in the time between his panicked hang up and his equally panicked callback. Pretending to be a human was clearly the most difficult thing he'd ever had to do.↩

104. He had, in fact, tripped over a potted plant in his hurry to answer the phone. The verbenas were on thin ice.↩

105. Even though the accelerator was a little further away from his feet than normal and he was regretting not practicing in this shape beforehand. Crowley had a lot of regrets about swanning after the feather (no, he didn't), but he'd done quite a bit of following teenagers since their meeting and felt he knew a little more than he had.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at [SylWritesStuff](https://sylwritesstuff.tumblr.com/) and my lovely beta at [skimmingmilk](https://skimmingmilk.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Also, for those of you who are interested, that ABO fic I hinted at has been posted. [Expand Thy Wings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25373974/chapters/61526728) will be updated every Saturday :D I hope you all enjoy!


	11. Can I Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An empty pantry, someone else's bookshop, and Crowley knew he was forgetting something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's [our song](https://open.spotify.com/track/1UUw3rRAu0CzFqIvQAqhO8?si=UkLYDcL8QWujcX9cP8OiAQ)~  
> Once this fic is finished, I'll put up a playlist
> 
> Thanks to [SkimmingTheSurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface) for being a wonderful beta this week through my latest hyper-fixation. I honestly don't know how I haven't annoyed you to death.  
> Maybe that's why you've invaded my footnotes yet again, lol.

_No matter how you arrive at the awareness and belief  
_ _that you've lived before and will live again,  
_ _the most lasting healing benefit will be the change in your attitude.  
_ _You are creating your future lives right at this moment,  
_ _and every moment of decision-making._

― Lianne Downey

* * *

**_1985  
_** **_Mayfair, London_ **

He was nervous. 

No, he wasn't. No nerves at all. He'd spent a full year planning for this. Practically a regular human at this point. They'd done everything they had to do to satisfy the Local Authority, including an inspection of his flat and lying through his teeth that they were just friends. 

Except that was almost true. They hadn't kissed yet. It had taken a _lot_ of self-control to not let that happen on their sporadic dates, just as it had taken a lot not to call him angel. But then, he did like calling him dove. An _actual_ endearment and not just a glorified label, no matter how he actually meant it. He was why angel had taken off with humans, after all. Millennia of being around humans all too eager to proposition him and his response had always been - _always_ \- “Nah, I've already got an angel.”

Actually getting ready to have that angel around him had been exciting, making this both the shortest and longest year of his entire existence, but this last day? 

This last day was torture. 

His phone rang and he waited through two rings before he answered. Couldn't look too desperate. “Anthony.”

“Hello, my dear. It's me, Aziraphale.”

The tension he refused to admit to melted right out of his shoulders, dripping down his spine and spilling onto the floor to leave him pleasantly calm and buzzing with pleasant anticipation. “Hi, dove. Alone?” 

“Yes. I just finished a meeting with my adviser. I'm being transferred to someone closer to Mayfair, a member of the, ah, the 'leaving care' team.”

“Wha- You need _more_ advisers?” 

“Social workers are an important part of the process, dearest. I've told you this.”

“Doesn't mean I like it,” he grumbled. “You're going to be with me. Dunno what else this leaving care team thinks you'll need.”

Aziraphale giggled through the phone and Crowley felt a fresh rush knowing he'd be able to hear it in person soon. All the time. “You wily serpent. You are not the only thing a person needs in life.”

“Says who?” 

“Common sense, rascal.”

Crowley hummed, smiling to himself. “Dunno who that is.”

“Obviously,” he sniffed haughtily. The effect was immediately ruined by the underlying excitement in his tone. “Now then, you'll be getting a telephone call from my previous adviser as well as my leaving care one. They'll tell you to be here at two, but do try to come sooner. By one, if at all possible. They'll each be here by then, and I'd much rather not be interrogated. You know I don't do well under that sort of pressure.”

“Mm, no. You like bragging about me too much.”

“I do not.[106] The cheek.”

Crowley laughed, boots propped up on his desk so he could lean back in a chair that was not supposed to lean. “I'll be there by one, Aziraphale. Don't fret over it.”

“I'm not. Of course I'm not. I'm... Well, I am. A smidge. Are you sure you want me there with you? All the time?” 

“All the time, dove.” For too many years now, he'd watched and wanted and missed him. “One o'clock. I won't be late.”

“Oh... Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale sighed over the line, and Crowley's smile softened. He was doing alright, he thought, at keeping his angel happy. “I need to go now. I should free up the line for when they telephone you, and finish packing.”

“Your new adviser isn't going to follow us to the flat, is she?” 

“Well...”

Crowley grunted. Heaven really had to leave him at a fucking orphanage this time, didn't they? “Fine, fine. I'll drive nearer the speed limit.”

“I would appreciate that very much, my dear, thank you. I'll see you tomorrow?” 

“Yeah. I'll be there, dove, I promise.”

“I know. I do trust you. Against my better judgment,” he teased. 

“Trusting me _is_ better judgment. Go pack. If you can call me later, do.”

“I'll do my best,” he promised, which meant he'd call later. “Pip-pip, my dear. Mind how you go.”

“Later.”

The call ended and Crowley sighed. The tension that had pooled out of him to puddle at his feet seeped its way right back up to settle between his shoulders. There went his plans to stop along the way to the flat. Aziraphale had been dropping hints about the lovely picnic weather for _months_. 

They'd have to go after his new social worker left, so hopefully she'd get all she needed quick. Bluh. 

\----

That plan fell through too, though that was more due to Aziraphale's ignorance than Crowley's seemingly endless misfortunes. His excitement, too, and shy eagerness to be settled in a new place. Well, not _entirely_ new. They'd spent a few days there together. No more than a handful of hours, really, but enough that Aziraphale had known what to expect when he'd walked inside. Enough to be excited and nervous and all tangled up in knots about the whole thing.

Because what if Crowley got bored with him? What if Crowley changed his mind about having him stay? What if he no longer wanted to be connected to the, um, odd fellow who believed so easily in both God and reincarnation? When Crowley only seemed to half believe in either. 

On the other hand, what if Crowley never tired of him? What if they stayed together for always? What if his peculiarities remained endearing and not off-putting? 

What if Crowley finally kissed him? 

Aziraphale tried not to think about that too much, but sometimes the thought snuck its way in. There had been several opportunities, in his opinion, but Crowley always seemed to shy away from them. He'd kiss his cheek or his hand and Aziraphale never felt brave enough to turn his head to catch his lips or use their linked hands to pull him closer. 

But Crowley was older, he was helping Aziraphale so much, and he'd been the one to start the flirting _and_ the dating. Clearly, he should initiate the next part. It made perfect sense. Besides, Aziraphale hardly wanted to take advantage of all the kindness being shown to him.

And, oh, it was truly nothing but sweet and kind. No matter how irritable Crowley could get or how much he denied it, Aziraphale wasn't blind to the sweetness of him. The decency he tried so hard to tuck behind his bad boy attitude was as endearing as said attitude, and Aziraphale had quite simply fallen in love with him. 

Certainly that was the only reason why he was there. Every bit of advice he'd received had been against this. Every word out of every social worker's mouth had been akin to “unsuitable living arrangements.” Yet every person had signed off on this. No one had argued with Crowley when he'd arrived a full hour and a half early, appearing at half-past twelve rather than two or even Aziraphale's requested one. 

Aziraphale had hoped, of course, but he hadn't been brave enough to _expect_ it. It had been difficult not to rush out the door the moment a polite secretary had knocked and said his ride was there. Both previous and new advisers had been, ah, less than impressed with ripped jeans and mysterious shades, but Aziraphale hadn't thought to ask him to wear something more put-together.[107] He decided rather quickly that he preferred him this way anyway. Exactly as he was. 

All gritted teeth and grunts and obvious dislike of every single formality. “Like I'm signing you out of a fucking prison,” he'd complained in the car and Aziraphale hadn't argued. 

He hadn't argued with Crowley’s displeasure over having Mrs. Anderson poking about the flat either. He had whispered that Crowley needed to behave himself, but he understood the dislike of the situation. This was his home. He had every right to feel defensive over it.

Even though Aziraphale had sighed over his extremely empty kitchen. All he had of culinary value were tea bags, a milk carton, and sugar.[108] “We’ll need to go shopping.”

“For what?”

“Oh, good Lord.”

While he knew that Crowley was a bit... eccentric, he’d always assumed it was due to his odd upbringing and apparently bottomless wealth. He was at least seventy percent certain that everyone’s agreement to let Aziraphale move here were the donation checks Crowley casually dropped each time he’d visited the group home.

But this spoke of someone who ate out for every meal, and that certainly wasn’t healthy. Hm. One or both of them clearly needed to learn how to cook. They'd start with some pots and pans. A baking sheet, perhaps, and utensils. Oh, kitchen proficiency was clearly a more needed skill than _maths_. Educational priorities were terribly skewed. 

From his visits, he knew that Crowley had two mugs in his cabinets and several wine glasses and tumblers and other various bits of crystal for drinking, but nothing else. If they picked up takeout instead of dining at a restaurant, they always ate in the living room right out of the containers. What should've been the dining room was more of a jungle, packed with some of the most stunning plants Aziraphale had ever seen. He was particularly fond of the flowers that bloomed in waves across the seasons.

There was also scattered art and statues,[109] more things that just said he was a rich lad who didn't quite know how to be more than that. High ceilings, dark walls, glass everywhere - all very modern and chic and not something Aziraphale liked very much, if he was completely honest. It just felt so cold and impersonal, which was so very not Crowley. He was warm and intense and endlessly curious. 

This flat was not a home, and he'd never once heard Crowley refer to it as such. Aziraphale was very determined to change that. Crowley deserved to have a home and not merely a place to lay his head and, frankly, Aziraphale thought he might deserve the same. Which was exactly why Crowley's picnic plans, unbeknownst to Aziraphale, were derailed. He asked to be taken to a bookshop and, well, Crowley very rarely refused him anything. 

“What exactly are we looking for?” Crowley wondered, brows rising when Aziraphale turned them down the Cooking section. 

“A beginner's guide, I think.” 

“To... cooking.”

“Yes. You can't eat out for every meal-” 

“Why not?” 

“-and cooking together is supposed to be a lovely way to connect with those around you.”

“Thought that's what dates were for.”

Aziraphale sent him an amused look, but continued to look over the shelves. “Is there anything in particular you like to eat?” 

“Nope.”

Aziraphale sighed gustily. “My dear, I know you have functioning taste buds. There are only so many times I can tolerate hearing the words ‘you pick.’”

Aziraphale didn't know how Crowley's hands fit in such tight jeans pockets, but there they went. “You haven't had a problem so far.”

“We haven't lived together so far, dear boy. Honestly,” he huffed, “I certainly hope you didn't expect this to be easy.[110] Living together takes a different sort of commitment, I should think, and your wants matter just as much as mine. I'd like to be your equal, Crowley, as much as I can be. So pick a food you like this instant and I'll find a recipe book.”

He continued to give Crowley an expectant look, waiting through his endearing stutters and stammers. Sometimes, he'd even hiss and it was a darling little thing. “Pizza,” he eventually spat, looking embarrassed to even admit he liked _anything_. 

“I think that's more baking than cooking, but I'm open to the endeavor. What else?” 

“You want _more_?” 

“Crowley, please, don't be difficult.”

Sighing, he leaned against a shelf and, oh, Aziraphale did like watching the line of him flop and lounge as disastrously as he pleased. He managed to be graceful without an ounce of grace to his name. “I... If I _had_ to choose-” 

“You do.”

Crowley gave him a look that displayed how put upon he was by furrowed brow and twisted lip alone. “I like Italian. Like, y'know, pasta things.”

“How descriptive,” he teased. 

“Shut up.” 

Aziraphale beamed, searching for both an Italian and a British cookbook. “After this, we'll make a menu for the week and a grocery list. You've got nothing at all in your kitchen, so perhaps tonight we'll cheat and order a pizza.”

Crowley gave him another look, this one the sort that always made butterflies beat at Aziraphale's belly. Exasperated, but very fond. “We're cheating tomorrow too. I'm taking you somewhere. I've been planning it. Y'know, as like, y'know... A glad you're here sort of thing?”

Aziraphale smiled, soft and adoring. “A housewarming?” 

“Yeah. But not at the flat.”

This precious lanky fool was going to be the death of him, Aziraphale was sure. “Alright, dearest, we'll have a cheat tomorrow too. Only one meal, though.”

“Out of...?” 

Laughing, sure he was joking,[111] Aziraphale turned away from him to scour the cookbooks. “Would you mind terribly if, perhaps, I looked at another section after this? Just for something new to read tonight?” 

“Course, dove. Whatever you like.”

Beaming, Aziraphale reached out and picked up a book that claimed to make Italian meals easy. “Thank you. I do have my own funding, of course.”

“Right.”

“Don't sound so amused. We're not all wealthy beyond imagination, Crowley.”

“Nothing's beyond imagination,” he countered and Aziraphale shook his head at him. That wasn't at all the point.

“Silly serpent.”

“Well.”

Well, indeed. Satisfied with the Italian book, he picked up a British classics one. Then he hesitated. Crowley was still leaned against a shelf, looking for all the world as if he would rather be anywhere else. Yet Aziraphale saw right through it. He didn't mind being surrounded by books and he certainly didn't mind being there with him. Silly serpent, indeed. 

Aziraphale bobbed up and kissed his cheek, felt it warm beneath his lips before he dropped back down and saw the evidence of his blush. Smile bright, he reached up and delicately closed Crowley's mouth with a finger to the underside of his chin. “Come along, dearest. I'd like to pick out a book now.”

“Hnng.”

Taking that as a yes, Aziraphale turned on his heel and strolled off with Crowley stumbling a bit behind him. 

Perhaps their age difference and Crowley's unchallenged leadership in this relationship didn't necessarily dictate who kissed who. Thoughts for later, certainly, not in someone _else's_ bookshop. His own would be a lovely place to kiss. Stacks of ancient tombs, piled up however he liked, no set order, very few customers, warm colours, rich woods, sunbeams catching on dust motes, and Crowley sprawled on a couch. Much older than he was now, dressed in regency era clothes... Or a fitted suit and fedora, smoke-smudged and... and... 

“Alright, dove?” Crowley murmured, and Aziraphale realized he'd stopped very abruptly and was swaying in the middle of an aisle. 

“Oh,” he breathed. “Oh, I... I'm so sorry. I suppose my mind wandered.” He blinked up at Crowley, saw his own pale reflection in the dark lenses. On a soft sound of frustration, he reached up. “They're gold,” he said with certainty, and whisked the frames off before Crowley could protest and he could lose his nerve. 

And they were. The cookbooks slipped from his grip as he stared. It wasn't surprise, though, that stilled him. Not that he wasn't surprised, per se. Crowley's pupils were two black slits dashed right down the center of golden irises, and that was certainly not a normal sight. That should've been surprising. It was. Of course it was.

But nothing else would've been right.

Crowley squirmed in place, reaching out for his sunglasses. It was easy to take them out of Aziraphale's weak grip and he quickly pushed them back on. And Aziraphale realized he looked very scared suddenly, looked at _him_ as if petrified he'd vanish into thin air. 

“A-Aziraphale-” 

“They're beautiful.”

“Do what?” 

“Your eyes are beautiful.” He reached down and gathered the books back up. “But I'm terribly sorry. That was- That was inexcusably rude and wretched and I'm not sure why I took your glasses like that. I understand completely if you're offended, but I promise I'll never-” 

The books dropped again. Twin thunks at their feet, ignored as Aziraphale's ears were filled with the sound of his own racing heartbeat. His back found itself pressed uncomfortably against shelves, the edge of sunglasses pushing against his face, their teeth clicked almost painfully - it was inelegant, messy, and desperate at the edges. It was uncomfortable teenage bodies that didn't feel quite right, mouths that thought they knew what they were doing but something about the fit needed rearranging. 

It was perfect. 

Aziraphale laughed, and Crowley looked wonderfully embarrassed. 

It was perfect. 

“I know I said I wouldn't do this again, but really.” Beaming, Aziraphale whisked off his sunglasses again and wound his arms around Crowley's neck before bringing their lips together again. Aziraphale swayed into him or Crowley pulled him closer, fingers digging into his waist, and they found the fit. Aziraphale knew because he melted, pooling into every one of Crowley’s angles to soften them. 

He tasted of apple cider, tart and sweet and dizzying. He tasted of heat, woodsmoke and flame. He tasted of something Aziraphale's mind impossibly called stardust, but it seemed correct. Aziraphale certainly felt like he was being lit from the inside out. It was so familiar, but brand new. And, oh, if reincarnation was real, he'd been brought back just for this, just for Crowley. 

“Darling,” he sighed as the kiss broke, and knew without even opening his eyes that, “Don't panic.”

“M'not.”

“Liar.”

“Cheeky,” he muttered, but the tension in him slowly subsided. Aziraphale's lashes fluttered to see a curious sort of wonder flit across his features instead, and his own lips curved. “Alright, dove?” 

“Very much so, Crowley. Tickety-boo.”

“ _Tickety-boo_ ,” he repeated, sounding strangled. 

Aziraphale giggled, pushing his sunglasses back on. “Yes. Now let go. What an awful place for a first kiss,” he playfully scolded, breaking his hold to pick up the books again. 

“Could try again. Tomorrow on that date.”

“Oh, yes. What a lovely idea.” Aziraphale kissed his cheek and spun away, absolutely giddy as he wandered the stacks in search of a book to enjoy that night when sleep inevitably alluded him. 

Of course, he picked a romance. It seemed apropos.

\----

Cooking was disastrous that first week, utterly abysmal as Crowley fought every single urge to use a demonic miracle to make everything do what it said it should do. If a pot didn’t boil after ten minutes exactly, he’d stalk over to glare at it and, well, then he’d back out and the water would cool. So that was an issue. Really, stressing over that was probably exactly _why_ the whole week had gone to pot. Aziraphale was using Expectations and Crowley was so stubbornly _not_ that it was causing the opposite effect. Accidental sabotage and it took until he was out to stir up a touch of mischief to put in a report - “Just going for a walk, dove. See you in a bit.” - for Aziraphale to come up with something edible.

He bounced up excitedly almost before the heavy door closed behind him, the light around his hair decidedly not natural and, therefore, unmentionable. “Oh, _Crowley_! I’ve done it!”

“Done what?”

“Dinner! Come and see. Oh, and you’ll need to try it, of course. I made meatballs,” he announced cheerfully, whirling away with Crowley really having no other choice but to follow him. “They were utterly disgusting to roll up, of course. I believe I washed my hands enough times to nearly remove my own fingerprints. But I think they taste quite nice. _And_ the spaghetti noodles aren’t limp. I wouldn’t call them al dente by any stretch, but they’re not mush this time either.”

Last time, somehow, they hadn’t been able to get a single one out of the pot and they’d just... melted right through the strainer when they’d dumped them. They’d had Chinese takeout that night, Crowley recalled, and Aziraphale had fretted over the cookbook and the noodle package in equal measure wondering what they could’ve possibly done wrong. Now, Crowley realized the kitchen he stepped into actually smelled... _good_.

Nothing burnt, nothing overcooked. There was a red sauce simmering in a pan, just waiting to be poured over the noodles, and it smelled like the last time Crowley had nipped over to Italy. Quick temptation and maybe he’d paused at a small restaurant under the guide of “maybe I’ll see if Aziraphale would like it here.” And _maybe_ he did that everytime he went to Italy. It just wasn’t the sort of thing he admitted. Out loud or to himself, but he looked at Aziraphale’s big, pleased smile and the pride in his eyes and couldn’t help it.

“Smells like Italy.”

“Oh,” he sighed, bobbing up to kiss his cheek in that embarrassing way he did. And Crowley reacted in the embarrassing way _he_ did. He really hadn’t been prepared for all the _affection_ living with an angel would bring. He was used to the distance, was maybe a little - a _lot_ \- touch-starved. Human bodies had all sorts of little issues and there were some things no amount of miracles or expectations could adjust.

Like teenage boy bodies were embarrassingly horny. He awoke each morning with a _problem_ even though he got rid of those bits every day. It was another problem with meeting Aziraphale so, er, young. Adulthood definitely started at eighteen nowadays and, even though they were both several thousand years old, doing much more than snogging on the couch just made Crowley feel... well, it was the _demon_ thing to do, wasn’t it? He just wasn’t that sort of evil.

Aziraphale would probably say something humiliating about him not being any sort of evil, and that was just rude.

“I could take you, y’know,” he said when Aziraphale stepped away to cut a meatball in half with the side of his fork. 

“To Italy?”

“For a start. Could take you anywhere now, can’t I?” No big jobs incoming that he was aware of. Hell had been unusually quiet on the big jobs front since 1969. Coincided pretty nicely with Aziraphale coming back, really. Some luck on his side for once.

“I suppose you could. Try this now. It’s hot.”

Aziraphale lifted a fork with half a meatball on it, and Crowley leaned down for the sample. It was simple and innocent, but he could see the slight widening of Aziraphale’s eyes and, well, he was a demon. He could feel the stirrings of lust in his angel. His own stirrings answered, but just as he had with kissing, he backed away. They were old enough to consent in every way except the human one and, well, wasn’t that the life they were living now? He’d waited this long, after all, so another two years wouldn’t kill either of them.

It helped that the meatball was actually delicious, and he said as much.

Aziraphale’s smile returned in a flash. “Is it really? You like it?”

“Yeah. What’d you do?”

“Well, I added more seasoning than it said to. Not too much more,” he hastily added, “but I wanted to make sure there was actually flavor in it. Not too bland, you see.”

“S’not bland, dove. Not at all.”

“Thank you, dearest.” Aziraphale turned away to turn down the heat on the sauce and look at the cookbook again. Crowley watched the handle of his wooden spoon slide into his distracted hand more by divine intervention than actual reach, unsure if he was glad or not every time one of those little angelic things happened. How weak were the wards this time? It had been less than fifty years between new corporations again, and they’d been so weak in 1793, in 1800 when he’d swiped his blood over a contract. If it was this weak now at sixteen, how much weaker would those binds be in four years? Five? His memories were bubbling under the surface so strongly he’d convinced himself he was a reincarnation, and it was a fascinating turn to take.

So like 1800, but so very different. At least then, he’d been able to _feel_ the angeldom. Now, it was still masked to him. A week of constant contact, nearly a full year of letters and telephone calls and sporadic meetings, and it was still masked to him. How strong was _that_ ward? And where had it come from? Wasn’t the point to let Aziraphale die? Not to hide him away and keep him safe from at least one demon’s senses. It was the only thing he really disliked, though. He liked feeling Aziraphale’s angelic bursts, no matter that they’d hurt from how muted his Grace had been. He didn’t know what was worse, actually.

“Crowley?”

“Muh?”

“You’re thinking very hard. Was I not excited enough about traveling with you? Because I am. I’m just-”

“No, it’s not that.” He sauntered over and leaned against the counter, watching him stir his sauce. “Got a lot on my mind, dove, and the walk didn’t really clear it.”

“Well, it was more than a walk. You’ve been gone for three hours.” 

The arch look Aziraphale sent him finally explained why he’d been so dismissive over the idea of travel. Crowley’s brows lifted. “Are you _mad_ at me?”

“No.”

No, Crowley agreed. Mad wasn’t the right word. He’d seen Aziraphale mad. He wouldn’t have bounced up to the front door to drag him to the kitchen had he been mad. He was curious and a little wary, maybe a smidgen upset now that he’d actually mentioned the problem. Crowley waited for him to pour the sauce over the bowl of meatballs and set the pan aside before tugging him close. “I didn’t mean to worry you, dove.” Which was probably the only true thing he was going to say in the next few minutes. It was a good thing he had explicit permission to do this or he’d feel awful.

Aziraphale relaxed into the embrace, chin nestling on Crowley’s shoulder. The soft sigh tickling his neck was sweeter than sugar and, yup, he felt awful for the lies he was about to tell. “What were you doing for so long? You didn't even use one of the telephones one needs to pay in order to use. 

“Payphones.” 

“Yes. You didn't use one to call me. So what were you up to?”

Supergluing coins to sidewalks and chatting up rats about what gossip they'd picked up. Always full of tidbits one could put in a report, the rats, and so easy to please. Setting them off in a restaurant the world was better seeing closed anyway was one of his favourite things to do. And they certainly seemed to appreciate it. 

“I was, mnnrg, sort of...” Playing it like he was embarrassed was uncomfortably close to just badly telling a lie, he realized, feeling briefly like Aziraphale before he shook it off. “It was a job thing.”

“You don't have a job.”

“I didn't this morning, no.”

Aziraphale leaned back, just far enough to gaze up at him and carefully take hold of his sunglasses. “May I?” 

“ _Ngk_. Yeah.” 

The sunglasses drew away and Crowley still didn't quite know what to expect. Aziraphale seemed to think he tensed every time simply because he was uncomfortable with his own eyes, which was... a little bit true. Around humans, anyway. He'd seen too much hate slung at _different_ over the millennia, no matter that the definition changed with some regularity. 

But Aziraphale, whatever cloaked him, was not a human. He'd not only not reacted poorly to them, he'd called them beautiful - _twice_ \- and he hadn't discorporated at the sight alone. Crowley had been too awed and too relieved not to grab him and thoroughly embarrass himself. He'd forgotten that the height difference was bigger than normal and their bodies were stupid teenage ones and that wasn't what he'd experienced in their earlier kisses. 

It had a mess of limbs and mouths, but Aziraphale had laughed and pulled him in for more. So not a total waste and, well, maybe different shapes were helpful? In not discorporating. Encouraging the reincarnation idea served a similar goal. He just wanted to keep Aziraphale around this time. As long as possible. Whatever had happened in Heaven, it had made the memories less dangerous and, apparently, _he_ was less dangerous. His eyes, his nearness - he could be with Aziraphale and it was okay. 

It would be okay this time. 

Aziraphale folded his sunglasses and neatly tucked them in Crowley's shirt before reaching up to hold his shoulders. “I wish you'd take them off when you got home.”

“M'not used to it.”

“I know, dearest.” Aziraphale had to lift up to his tippy toes to kiss him, and Crowley did admittedly like that. He held onto him in turn, arms winding around his waist to keep him up. “Now tell me about this supposed job.”

“It's not _supposed_.” Crowley huffed, enough truth in that to make guilt slough off. “Look, it's a thing I've been kicking around for a while.” A whole year, in fact, as he'd been trying to figure out what sort of job would work in both encouraging Aziraphale to travel places with him _and_ to excuse his random absences for his actual work. “I just, y'know, didn't want to jinx it by saying anything.”

“What is it?” 

“Travel writer.”

Aziraphale's brows lifted and Crowley was abruptly insulted by the obvious disbelief. He'd told that lie _flawlessly_. How dare-

“Crowley, you know I care about you very much. You can tell me the truth.”

“Wha- That _is_ the truth. I'm- I write.”

“I've seen you write, my dear.”

“Letters,” he scoffed. “Not all professionally.”

“You dropped out of school.”

“And Jackie Collins was _expelled_.”

Aziraphale gasped, taking a step back. He bumped into the counter and Crowley just caged him in. “You are certainly not Jackie Collins.”

But he'd tempted her. He'd known her. One of the many, many people Hell had set Crowley upon over the millennia and she'd barely needed him. She'd already dropped out of school, was in the middle of quite the affair with Marlon Brando, and she'd just needed one drinking buddy to encourage her writing. She'd been fine from there, publicly giving credit to her second husband, and Hell was happy.

Hell's definition of “wicked” fell so short when it came to human imagination. 

But that was several millennia's worth of old news and Crowley's current situation was very different. “How do you know, dove? Reading smutty novels, are we?” 

He gasped again, cheeks colouring. “No! Stop that. I certainly- I am _not_ \- That is, the _definition_ of smut is- Well. Some theories-” 

“Got a first edition of _The World is Full of Married Men_ 'round here somewhere. Signed and all.” 

Aziraphale opened and closed his mouth twice. “Oh.”

“And _The Stud_.”

“ _Oh_.”

Grinning, Crowley nuzzled his brow against Aziraphale's. He'd sneak them into his room later. “The point is, you don't need proper school to be a best-seller and, ehhh, this is just a few magazine articles. Excuses to get out and about in the world.”

“Have you done anything like it before?” 

He made a few noises, easing back so Aziraphale could turn the stove off and pour the meatballs and sauce over the noodles. All of which appeared to have kept to the perfect temperature despite the distraction. There was his angel. “Written a few things about concerts and the like. Few freelance things under a penname.”

“And you wanted something more permanent?” 

Aziraphale was _not_ making this easy for him. That, he admitted begrudgingly, was also very much his angel. “May as well. Don't wanna get bored doing nothing all day, but I'm definitely not gonna spend all my time in a damn office either. They're soul-sucking.”

He'd probably go so far as to suggest that nine-to-five office jobs with their neat little structure was Heavenly influence if the Heavenly influence wasn't nodding in sympathy. “They do seem that way, don't they? Those poor people don't have time for much else but work, and it must be exhausting.” 

“Exactly. And this way, we've got an excuse to travel.”

“To Italy?” he asked, spooning up a bit of the sauce. 

“For a start. Obviously, I'm going to take you to-” He paused to taste the sauce when the spoon was lifted to his lips. “ _Fuck_.”

“What?”

“That's _amazing_.”

Aziraphale beamed, turning away to take down two bowls. “Thank you, darling. I thought the jar mixture we bought was a bit too... plain, so I added a touch more spice here and there and some more tomato paste. Anyway, where else will you take me?” 

“Paris, obviously. The French countryside, too. We can find some vineyards.” Sixteen was old enough to drink wine legally in France, something Crowley _had_ absolutely thought to look up. He had his priorities. 

Food was not normally among them, but he took the bowl Aziraphale offered without complaint. “Make a whole thing of it, you and me.”

“That sounds lovely. It really does.” Blue eyes were full of dreams when they found Crowley's, and it made his breath catch. Like in 1793 when he'd sat across from him in all his gold brocade and fitted jacket and lace and wistfully spoke of owning a bookshop. “We really could?” 

“Yup. As long as we like, dove.”

“Then- then yes. I would love to go, and I'll be very interested to read your articles.” This gasp was pure delight. “We'll have to buy the magazines they're in!”

Oh. _Bollocks_. 

\----

Crowley spent two weeks learning how to actually write magazine articles, miracling a position with a local rag who wanted a teenage perspective. And then he had to do some serious tempting to get picked over someone with actual experience. What a load of bollocks. Six thousand years without a human job and now what? 

If it weren't for Aziraphale... 

He was decidedly grouchy about the whole thing, so he and his bad mood had been shooed right out of Aziraphale's sunshine kitchen. He was trying a baked ziti, and apparently bad attitudes weren't a necessary ingredient. 

He draped himself artfully[112] across the couch and eventually settled on _Sherlock Holmes_. There were such few channels to flip through, it was almost pointless anyway. But he could already smell the chicken cooking and, well, his mood was boosting despite himself. He'd already gotten used to food scents in the flat, enjoying everything Aziraphale made - except a tuna casserole they'd both agreed was better in the trash and never mentioned again - and he was getting used to not using miracles for every little thing. He was enjoying some of it. 

Suddenly, Jeremy Brett was glaring at him. “Crowley.”

He almost slipped off the couch. A slight problem with the leather he'd picked, but more a problem with the sudden presence in the fucking living room. “Hi. Yeah. Who is this?” 

“Hastur,” Jeremy growled. “Duke of Hell.”

“And Ligur,” David Burke added, stepping into view. 

Presences. Plural. Wonderful. “Hello. Listen, ah, now's not really a good time. I was just-” 

“Crowley? Who are-” 

He snapped quickly and the world stilled but for him and the two demons suspiciously eyeing him through the television screen. “Who's that?” Ligur demanded, still sounding and looking very much like David Burke. 

Crowley hoped like he never had before. He prayed. Whether or not She was listening, he had to try and he had to hope this muted nature of his angeldom wasn't only blocking him. “S'just a human.”

“You're in a house with a human?” 

“Oh, no. In a... In a flat with a human. Big, ah, big thing.” He cleared his throat and looked back, just able to see Aziraphale stepping into the room. Oh, _please_ , for Somebody's sake... “He's a modern day Job.”

Hastur’s Jeremy Brett-shaped eyebrows rose comically high. “Job? And you think you're good enough at tempting to handle him? Our master couldn't beat Job.” 

Fuck. “I am, and I have been. That Earth angel is busy somewhere or other, Heaven hasn't even noticed. I figure, y'know, if I keep in constant contact with him... He'll turn properly evil. And then we'll be tied?”

“Tied to what?” Hastur wondered. 

Crowley sighed. “The score with Heaven. They'll have Job, but we'll have, er, Ezra here.”

“Ezra,” Ligur mused, rubbing his jaw consideringly. “Right. Sounds better than Job anyway.”

“Much cooler,” Crowley agreed, feeling his grip on time slipping. 

“Fine. We'll meet up in three days to recount our deeds.”

“Deeds. 'Course. Yeah. See you down there.” He switched off the television, scrambled to his desk where the phone lay, and slammed it as Aziraphale fully entered the room. 

“-you talking to?” 

All his planning, Crowley thought, and he'd forgotten about Hellish communications. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fu- “I was on the phone. Got a meeting in a couple o'days. Might, y'know, get that first real assignment. If it goes well, I mean.”

“Oh. Will you be gone long?” 

Crowley smiled easily, heart still frantically beating in his chest. A modern day Job. What had he been thinking. “No longer than I have to be, dove. I promise. You just get your bags packed.”

“I won't put the cart in front of the proverbial horse just yet, dearest. Did you want to come try the chicken?” 

If this lie didn't work, Aziraphale was going to be discorporated again and Crowley... Well. He'd rather not think about it. “Yes.”

* * *

* * *

### Footnotes

106. _He lied like a liar. - Stephanie_

I mean... To pick on Aziraphale for once, of course it’s a lie. He very much did and was always careful to do it in such a way that no one could ever say for sure if he was talking about a friend or more. - Syl↩

107. It wouldn't have done a single thing anyway. Crowley was going to keep punk rock In as long as he could. Nirvana's iconic _Nevermind_ and Billy Idol's wretched _Cyberpunk_ album would kill the look for a few years, but Crowley didn't know tartan would be a Thing in the 90s just yet.↩

108. There were also multiple bottles of alcohol, but that cabinet was “stuck.” - Syl

_And two carrots. - Stephanie_

Get your _Staged_ references out of here, troublemaker. However accurate, lol. - Syl↩

109. There was an eagle statue, large and mid-flight. Aziraphale had stared at it for far too long the first time he'd been over, something teasing at the edges of memory. He didn't know what it was, but he had known he'd desperately wanted Crowley to kiss him. He'd wondered if it would feel like a bomb blast.↩

110. He had, actually. Step 6 was the easiest one. Or supposed to be.↩

111. Not really. Crowley knew breakfast, brunch, lunch, teatime, dinner, and dessert as mealtimes. He just wasn't completely certain how many of those six Aziraphale would want in a day and, frankly, the thought of eating that much so often was just a bit nauseating.↩

112. He flopped as dramatically as a wet noodle, legs slung over the arm, and silent flicks of the wrist changing the channel because he hated getting up to turn the knob. Some clever human was bound to come up with something else soon.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at [SylWritesStuff](https://sylwritesstuff.tumblr.com/) and my lovely beta at [skimmingmilk](https://skimmingmilk.tumblr.com/).


	12. The Devil You Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prince appears, an angel is nearly lost, and there are some travel opportunities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Our chapter song!](https://open.spotify.com/track/5MEKqNAOlgt3sh5o0iq8EM?si=0bfxB7lYTHWn6Q58ztuzJw)
> 
> Big thank you, as usual, to [SkimmingTheSurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface) for her beta work.
> 
> Also, I’m so sorry for the Beezlebub POV, lol. It’s a short experiment, I promise. But if you can’t stand it, [here’s a Z-free version](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ZRr25U217zHS91G5-Dwu-oC_jecms4864z8lLK_6FDM/edit?usp=sharing).

_Evil is simply a hard truth,  
_ _a fact we must face from time to time  
_ _both in human form and on the Ethereal Plane.  
_ _Its power comes not from any real source as light does,  
_ _but rather from a fall into emptiness,  
_ _a hopeless despair perpetuated over and over again  
_ _by the judges of Earth._

― Sean Patrick Brennan

* * *

**_1985  
_** **_Hell_ **

There waz too much happening on Earth and in Hell for demonz to be going around finding potential szaintz, but it waz alzo keeping Crowley out of their hair and the buzier he waz, the lezz likely he waz to cauze a zmall sztir when thingz really sztarted happening. 

Beelzebub, Prince of Hell and Lord of the Fliez, really didn't want anyone interfering once thingz really ztarted happening. Their mazster waz having a hard enough time finding szomeone to birth hiz child - which waz nothing szhort of embarrazzing - without them having to deal with any uprizingz or zecond thoughts. Or, worze, _hezitation_.

And at leazt Crowley wazn't szitting on hiz handz up there on Earth. At leazt finding a modern day Job waz _intereszting_. They juszt didn't buy it. Job waz God from the early dayz, when thingz were more excziting and needed more tight control from both szidez. The very idea that zomeone in thiz day and age would have that zort of purity, and that _Crowley_ would find him, waz laughable. He waz probably juszt fucking a human,[113] which waz no szkin off their noze. Beelzebub would be fairly annoyed if he hadn't fucked zeveral by thiz point. Luszt waz one of the eazieszt szinz to inczite. He'd be _sztupid_ if he hadn't taken advantage. 

“Demon Crowley,” they greeted az if it waz the mozt exhauzting part of their day. 

Crowley leaned againzt the door of their office, a szmirk curling hiz lipz. “Lord Beelzebub, lovely as ever.”

Zmarmy baztard. Worze, zomehow, now that he'd made himzelf younger. Perhapz there waz zomething to hiz inziztence that humanz hated teenagerz. They glared at him regardlezz, fliez buzzing juszt az bitterly around their head. “You've finiszhed recounting deedz with Hasztur and Ligur?” 

“Yup. All done. Recounted, listed, tallied up. I think I'm winning.”

They didn't zo much az let their lipz twitch at the joking tone. Crowley had alwayz been an odd one. Putting him on Earth waz az much for their szanity az a wize deczizion. He'd done exczellent work topzide. “Tell me about thiz modern day Job.”

“Wot.”

Beelzebub sztared at him for zeveral, _zeveral_ long szecondz. 

Crowley cleared hiz throat. “Right, yeah, modern day Job. Name's, ah, Ezra. He's a human teenager. But, er, he's been raised as an orphan. I snatched him up as his luck was about to turn. Could feel the Heavenly influence all over him.”

“And what have you done differently from what our mazzzter did to Job in your effortz to turn him away from God'z light?” 

“I'm spoiling him. Giving him whatever he wants, whenever he wants it. Infecting him with greed. And, ah, some gluttony. Er. He's also been lying to his human social workers.”

“About?” 

“I've got him convinced we're a couple and it's not allowed. Right now, y'know. Being in a same-gendered relationship? So he's been lying, saying we're just friends.”

“And in the procezz you're working on luszt.” They nodded to themszelvez while Crowley had an odd szpazm in the doorway. “How long have you been working on him?” 

“Ah... A year long distance. Couple o'weeks in person. Just managed to get him to move in with me.” He sztopped. “That is, I bought him a space and I've imposed on him. Technically.”

“You'll fuck him szoon, then?” 

For a moment, it looked like Crowley waz about to bluszh. “Well...”

“Well?”

“He's of the mind that it's a sin. Y'know, to do it before marriage.”

“It'z a szin to fuck without...” They zhuddered, voice lowering, “Love.”

“Yeah, well, he doesn't know that. He thinks it's the marriage bit, but, ah, I'm working on it. Gonna... I'm gonna use it against him. Once he's all properly lustful, I can use sex promises to get all sorts of sins out him. Blasphemy and... all the like.”

Szatizfied, they roze. “Good. Let'z go.”

Crowley did szquirm, which pleazed them. “Usss? Where're we going?” 

“To szee him. Thiz modern Job.”

“We can't.”

“We can. We _are_.”

“But he- Well, I mean, he- Y'know, he thinks I'm just a human.” Crowley'z laugh szeemed tinny and terrified. They were az delighted az a Prince of Hell szhould be. “If you tipped him off, it could blow everything.”

“We can discuszz the sztory you've told him on the way. Let'z. Go.”

Crowley knew better than to refuze. “Right.”

\----

The Prince of Hell was in the Bentley, and Crowley was barely holding it together. 

“Thiz iz how humanz travel now?” 

His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, and he'd never been so relieved that he kept his car clean. There was _no_ sign of an angel ever having been in the passenger seat. There wasn't even music pouring out of the speakers, thankfully. He didn't want to have a chat with Lord fucking Beelzebub themselves about bloody Queen. 

“Yup. Cars, aeroplanes...” He cleared his throat, gaze locked on the road in a way they never were when Aziraphale was beside him. But the speedometer was well into triple digits, another thing that never happened when his angel was with him. Part of Crowley wouldn't mind a crash, though, a sudden discorporation. 

The smarter part knew he'd better fucking not. Aziraphale was at risk if he did that. His entire existence was at stake if this failed. He'd have to give Aziraphale the code to the safe behind the Mona Lisa sketch. Then, if things went pear-shaped, wake him up fully like he had at the church. Destroying Beelzebub would be... 

Fuck, Crowley would never be safe if Beelzebub was _destroyed_ while with him. He'd have to skip off Earth entirely. Satan himself might come for revenge. 

“Where is Satan, anyway? Thought, y'know, this sort of thing was right up his alley.”

“He iz buzy.”

“Busy?”

“Buzzzzy,” they snarled and Crowley knew better than to ask again.[114]

He stopped outside of their building, immediately disliking that he was about to show a demon where he lived. They knew. Of course they _knew_ , but it was different to have them there. In the little safe space he'd carved out for himself, the little spot he'd brought Aziraphale. If this worked, he'd take him traveling and then he'd give him the bookshop. As soon as possible, they'd move into it together. 

“This is it. I'll take you up, but then I'll... go in first.” Warn him. 

Beelzebub got out of the car with him, gaze narrowed on the building as Crowley guided them to the door. “Why iz it zo zmall?” 

Offense rippled up his spine, but he didn't admit to it. He _liked_ his damn flat. “Gotta blend in. Staying in a flat in the city helps. Besides, it's bigger on the inside.”

“Hm.”

They didn't sound impressed, but Crowley hadn't expected them to. He stepped into the lift ahead of them, struggling between a balance of the deference the Prince of Hell would expect and the deference a demon should show. 

At his door, he pushed it open and stopped them on the foyer. “I'll let 'im know you're here.”

“Make it fazt. There'z zo much... freszh air. It'z dizguzsting.”

Crowley nodded. “Right,” he agreed and fled. 

He sped down the narrow hall, flinging doors open, and had never been more grateful for the soundproof nature of his flat than when he stepped into the living room to find Aziraphale snuggled up with a book in his favorite armchair[115] and Schubert spilling from the record player. “Oh! You're h- What's wrong?” 

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Not a thing. Right as rain, me. Never a thing the matter. I'm fine. Dandy, even. Fine _and_ dandy.” And that wasn't working. Aziraphale only looked more concerned. 

He crossed the room and put the record in its sleeve, struggling to ignore Aziraphale's pout. “I was in the middle of-” 

“'Death and the Maiden,' yes. Which book is that?” 

“ _A House of Pomegranates_. It's-” 

“Wilde, yes. Fine, good. Listen, someone's here-” 

“ _Crowley_.”

He grabbed the arms of the chair and leaned down, glasses slipping down his nose, and Aziraphale stared at him. “Please listen to me. Someone is here and they are not... They're not a particularly _nice_ someone, but I don't have a choice and neither do you. They're going to tell you I work for them at the magazine. That's a lie.”

“Why-”

Crowley laid a finger over Aziraphale's lips, knowing he'd pay for that later. “My, hmnng, father worked for them. And they're pissed off that I won't come work for them now. They've got some influence with the firm that handles the estate and I've got to make nice until I'm eighteen.”

And, please, Somebody, let this be a one time thing. 

“They know we're a thing. But I told them you were shy about it, and... I may have said your name was Ezra. I'm _sorry_ ,” he added desperately, Aziraphale’s brow furrowing and eyes filling with hurt. “It's just to keep you safe, dove. But if things go pear-shaped-” 

“I like pears,” Aziraphale interrupted, insistent on saying _something_ apparently. 

“If things go _wrong_ , then, there's something in the safe behind the sketch back there. A thermos.” He jerked his thumb towards it and Aziraphale peeked around him. “If they start to get... extra nasty, open it and spill the thing all over them. Try not to hit me in the process, but... Yeah.”

“Are you telling me that someone is coming into our home and that I have permission to do them _harm_ should the need arise?” 

Crowley snapped in his pocket, then pulled out a piece of paper with numbers written on it. He pushed it into Aziraphale's pocket. “That's exactly what I'm saying. They want to see you.”

“ _Me_?”

“Just pretend I'm in charge and that you're willing to do whatever I say. That's _all_ you need to do. _Please_ , angel.”

Blue eyes unfocused and Crowley swore. Of all the fucking times to slip up-

“Aziraphale-” 

“It's alright,” he murmured, lifting up a hand to cup Crowley's cheek, to gaze at him with angelic eyes. It only lasted for a few seconds until he blinked and the eyes were confused and human. “I'll do my best,” he promised. “I would do anything for you, so it's hardly a stretch.”

Crowley kissed him, quick and light only because that's all they had time for, and then he sped back to the front. “He's nervous.”

“He szhould be.” Beelzebub barely looked at him before brushing by, and Crowley showed them to the living room. Only to have them veer off towards his plants. They scanned them and leaves began to shake, branches threatening to snap with how straight and well they presented themselves. “Your work?” 

“Mnng... Er. Ezra's. I just... I just torture them. Not one for plants, me. Yeah.”

“Hm. They're terrified. Good work. Put them in your next report. I want to know how many you kill.”

“Plenty,” he boasted, the only thing he had confidence in just at the moment, and followed them back to the living room. 

\----

Aziraphale wasn't sure what he'd expected after Crowley's hushed, desperately delivered explanation. Some enormous bloke in an Italian suit hiding weapons, perhaps. Maybe with a scar across one eye. 

The petite fellow who stepped into the living room was small and slender, wore a simple ill-fitting suit, and had a bizarre fly-like hat perched atop their head. He'd be very confused if Crowley didn't look so frightened. Half a step behind the stranger in their home, Crowley jerked his head towards the grand sketch of the Mona Lisa. Aziraphale just barely resisted the urge to look at it, mindful of the paper in his trouser pocket. He hadn't known there _was_ a safe back there and now he discovered it existed and had a thermos full of... Some sort of acid, perhaps? 

He couldn't possibly hurt one of God's creatures, no. He would never. 

But something very deep within him knew that he'd hurt this creature if they _dared_ harm his Crowley. That same something said this creature would not hesitate to harm either of them. It said everything Crowley had done for him - for _them_ \- would all be for naught if he didn’t straighten his spine and follow Crowley’s lead.

It was the same thing that had surged in him when Crowley had called him angel, a dozen hazy memories overlapping, tumbling end over end. There was something in angel that wasn’t in dove, though they stirred his heart equally. He hoped Crowley would call him it again, but cleared his throat and stood, hiding his book behind his back. “Hello,” he greeted cheerfully. “Anthony told me we had company. He said you’re from the magazine.”

Neither of which were a lie, so they came out easily. Calling him Anthony felt odd, though. He wasn't even sure why he did it, but that something deep inside was clawing its way to the surface, was guiding his voice. 

The stranger - oh, goodness, Crowley hadn’t even said their name - narrowed their eyes and glanced at Crowley. He smiled weakly. “I’ve heard zome... thingz about you and wanted to zee if they were true.”

They sounded bored. Or just bland. Like they had one steady emotional state and it was emptiness, and their affected way of speech was... Well, it was a bit like buzzing bees or- or flies. Aziraphale managed not to look at their hat again. “Ah. Well. I certainly hope they were good things. I do try to live my life in a very Godly way, you see.” His mouth and his brain seemed to disconnect or perhaps something deeper than his own mind took over, and Aziraphale didn’t think about how he knew what words to use or not use. He just talked. “I try to always keep one eye on the Good Book, though it...” He glanced around, cheeks pinkening just a bit. “It seems to have been misplaced. And Anthony’s quite the temptation. _Tempter_. Gosh.” He blinked, the pink deepening, and Aziraphale refused to acknowledge the relief in Crowley’s slump. Silly dem-

“So sorry. My mouth tends to just...” He waved a hand. “I’m called Ezra, of course. I’m sure he’s said. And you, my dear?”

There was a long pause, long enough that Aziraphale began to fidget with his book. The stranger smiled. It was not a particularly kind smile. “Bee.”

“How lovely. Could I get you a drink? My manners are escaping me today. Obviously. I should've offered right away. Anthony's hardly one to do the polite thing.”

Their smile somehow became less nice. “I don’t do... drinkz.”

“Oh? How odd.” And then he gasped, palm clapping over his own mouth. “Oh! Not odd at all, my dear. Of course you can do whatever it is you like.” He let out an embarrassed laugh that was, actually, entirely accurate. “I’ll just put my book away, shall I?” He scooted by, though he didn’t want to go anywhere near them, and the way Crowley touched his hand as he went by let him know that he’d done well. With whatever this was, he’d done well. No lies required.

\----

Crowley wanted to laugh, but he also desperately wanted to rush after Aziraphale to make sure all the angelic influence that had guided those words didn’t make him crack apart. Please, please, please-

“He’z _nicze_ ,” Beelzebub complained, mouth pinching as if they’d just eaten a lemon.

Crowley kept his nod somber, an easy enough feat only because he was simmering with worry. “Irritating, I know. Warned you, though.”

“Yez. He zstinkz of Archangel.” 

Heart sinking, Crowley took two deep, even breaths. “Does he? He’s always smelled the same to me. Don’t even remember any Archangels.”

“Not even Raphael?” they hissed and Crowley swallowed that ache.

“I’ve had my current bosses a lot longer than the older ones, Lord Beelzebub. I’ve got nothing for Upstairs.” Also, coincidentally, not a lie. “But what does Ezra have to do with Archangels?”

“Job zmelled the zame way. Our mazter zayz he was blezzed at birth. But you’ve made a dent in thiz one. He’z piouz. But he’z cracking.”

“Like an egg,” he agreed, trying not to squirm in place. “Just, ah, just need to keep working on him. And, er, if Hell could keep from communicating through the telly or my radios, that would help. I don’t want to spill the demon bit until his soul’s good and- and dark grey. Then he’ll hate me and he’ll be ours.”

They nodded and Crowley tried hard not to back away or do something really insane and ask them to just leave. “Keep updatez coming in your reportz, Demon Crowley. And make zure Heaven’z Earth angel doezn’t catch you at thiz.”

“I can guarantee he won’t.”

They looked at Crowley and he could feel their gaze even through his sunglasses. The threat was tangible even before they said it. “If you fuck thiz up, you will regret it for all eternity.”

He swallowed. “Right.”

They sank through the floor to terrify the downstairs neighbors, and Crowley carefully counted to ten before he ran after his angel. He was gripping a chair at the tiny table for two they’d picked up the day before, just the right size for their kitchen. He’d been so excited over the simple idea of not having to eat on a couch or in his reading chair. Of course Crowley had bought it. Of course they’d spent two hours figuring out which leg went where, Crowley swearing the air blue and Aziraphale giggling at him.

Please, please, please- “Aziraphale?”

“I’m so sorry, dear boy. I feel... terribly odd.”

Crowley reached for him, gently prying his fingers off the chair to turn him and gather him close. He cupped Aziraphale’s cheeks, watching the fight in his eyes, in the way his lips pressed together, in the way he fisted his hands at his sides. So tight his knuckles were white and his nails were surely leaving crescent marks in the palms. Crowley slid his hands down Aziraphale’s arms, thumbs rubbing until those hands unfurled and he could guide them to grip his black t-shirt instead. “Hold onto me, dove. Don’t let go.”

“Crowley- Crowley, who _was_ that?”

“Exactly who they said. Just Bee. Just a bad person who thinks they know everything about you. But they’re wrong, and they don’t.”

“They don’t.”

Crowley nodded, cupping his waist. He pressed them closer, taking deep breaths he didn’t need because Aziraphale had stopped entirely and they both needed him to focus on doing human things. “They don’t, and they’re gone. Just breathe for me, Aziraphale, please. Hold on and breathe.” His eyes were so far away, darting about, not focusing, but his chest started to move, to match Crowley’s breaths.

“No need for a fight, then. Flaming swords. Which don’t exist, but if I had one I wouldn’t just- I would probably just give it away if someone needed it. I gave-”

Crowley reached into Aziraphale’s pocket and took the page with numbers, tore it, and tossed the scraps over his shoulder.

And Aziraphale blinked, distracted. “Oh, Crowley, don’t make a mess. The floors are so clean.”

There was still a film over his eyes, so Crowley slid his arms around his waist and pulled him closer. As if holding on could possibly stop him from discorporating. “Don’t go,” he whispered.

He blinked once, then twice, and even though Crowley couldn’t feel his Grace, he knew it was writhing as Aziraphale wrestled it back. “Don’t go,” Crowley said again.

“No, of- of course not. Not this time.” That was too close to 1941. Crowley sucked in a sharp breath, and Aziraphale cut him off by laying a finger over his lips. And then his brow arched finely. Tit for tat. “It won’t be so easy for me to die this time. The plan worked better and worse than expected, but it’s alright. I’m alright, my dear. But what did they want? Quickly now.”

Quickly. Right. Shit. “Might’ve said you were a modern day Job and I was keeping an eye on you to corrupt you.”

“Ah. Then that was the right angle.”

Crowley’s heart squeezed. It was too close to 1941. Whatever he said about this mysterious stupid plan, it was too close and he still very much didn’t want Aziraphale to go. “Yeah. You were perfect, dove.”

“How lucky. You can call me the other thing, by the way. Don’t not call me dove because I do so adore it, but the other is just fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Completely.” Aziraphale lifted a hand, sliding it into his hair. “I was right about this, wasn’t I? Adding some drama looks very good on you.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“What’s that saying? Like recognizes like?”

“Don’t go tossing around sayings right now. My brain can’t handle it.”

“Can it handle me telling you that you’re doing a better job of this than I thought you might?”

“The fucking cheek.”

Aziraphale giggled. “You forget I’ve seen your notes. A six step plan, darling, really?”

“Oi! Shut it.” Crowley scowled. “It should’ve worked.”

“Ah, but evil,” he teased, “always contains the seeds of its own destruction. No matter how well-planned, how foolpr- _mmf_!”

Precious, awful prat, Crowley thought, spilling every ounce of fondness and affection into the kiss even when he felt it shift. The full angel may have been tucked away, but he wasn’t gone. He was still there, and it wasn’t like any other time in their long and storied history. It was something new, and they'd figure it out together. 

\----

Aziraphale's lashes fluttered when their lips parted, both surprised and not to be in Crowley's arms. He was certainly pliant enough to be held up by him rather than by his own feet. “Gosh. I think I need to sit.”

Crowley hooked a foot around the leg of a chair and drew it back before bundling Aziraphale into it, the angel sighing quietly. “Thank you, dearest.”

“Yeah.” Crowley dragged over the other chair and sat next to him, so Aziraphale took his hand and just held on while his mind reeled. 

“I don't... entirely know what I said,” he eventually admitted. “It was all a bit, ah, chaotic. In my mind, I mean. And they were certainly not what I expected. They looked entirely too young for your father-” 

“There's a big boss, and you don't want to meet him. Bee's just... second in command, you could say.”

“Oh.” That certainly didn't feel like a lie, but it was terribly worrying. “Just what sorts of things was your family involved in that you have to lie about who I am and that you have weapons in your home?” 

“It's... I don't know. Not the whole of it. I just know I don't want to be part of it.”

Aziraphale reached up, touching his sunglasses, and Crowley whisked them off himself. Oh... That very much wasn't a lie. He _didn't_ want anything to do with them. He stroked a hand through Crowley's hair, sighing. “I thought you had a meeting with the magazine?” 

“Bee found me on my way out. But the good news is, I've got that first assignment. They want Paris first. So if you're up for it...”

It felt more like an escape at the moment, Aziraphale’s smile feeling weak and trembling when he offered it. 

“Oh. You don't...?”

“I do. I would love to go. My mind's just a bit...”

“Muddled?” 

“Very much so.”

Crowley nodded and rose, surprising Aziraphale by sweeping him up and cradling him in surprisingly strong arms. “Crowley!” 

“I'm taking you to bed.” Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat and something in his expression must've tipped him off because Crowley's face immediately turned red. “Not like that! Mnnneugh, that's not- I didn't mean-” 

Both disappointment and relief tangled because, well, Aziraphale very much wanted Crowley to take him to bed “like that,” but he didn't think he could handle such a thing in his present state of mind. “Oh. What did you mean?” 

“You and your book, and I'll bring the record player into your room. And you can just, y'know, settle for a bit. Finish the pomegranate whatever you were reading.”

“You knew it was Oscar Wilde.”

“Shut up.”

“Have you read it?” 

“You know I don't read.”

“I know no such thing.” Aziraphale pillowed his cheek on Crowley’s shoulder, comfortable in his arms. Even though something felt... sad. How very bizarre. He didn't know what could possibly have caused sorrow in either of them, but it hung unspoken. 

It was still there when Crowley laid him amongst his pillows. When Crowley handed him his book and disappeared. Aziraphale sighed, pushing against the headboard until he was comfortably sitting up. They'd painted this room during his first week there. He hadn't been willing to keep the same dark color scheme that permeated the rest of the flat, and Crowley always seemed willing to indulge him.

They'd picked a pale blue, Crowley rolling his eyes through every single one of Aziraphale's hems and haws over which particular shade of blue spoke to him. The wall where the bed pressed against was a creamy beige, the sort of color that reminded Aziraphale of old book pages. Its selection had also earned several eye rolls, but Crowley had stayed by his side and he'd gotten himself speckled with paint, just as much as Aziraphale had, when the two of them had pushed furniture to the middle of the room and gotten to work. Struggling with rollers and paint trays and wondering how to get paint off a ceiling when a roller had gone just a bit too high. 

Afterwards, a giggling suggestion to paint the rest of the flat had been met with such a glare, it made him smile even now when he knew Crowley was genuinely upset. So much about Crowley made him smile, the glow in his heart so bright it threatened to smother every shadow.

Watching the way Crowley's brow furrowed through the way he hooked up the electronic record player as if he'd never done it by hand before, Aziraphale wished the glow _could_ burn away every shadow. Crowley shouldn't have them darkening any part of his bright, darling soul. 

“Alright, dove?” he asked when Schubert's string quartet flowed through the room. 

“Actually, could you be a dear and make us both a cuppa? I think I'd like some tea. Wouldn't you?” 

“Maybe something stronger,” he muttered. 

“Well, yes, obviously. In the tea, please.”

Crowley eyed him for a few seconds, but Aziraphale didn't let his own gaze falter. While his tastes had thus far stayed on the occasional glass of wine with dinner, he wasn't against a little indulgence. 

“And please bring your tea back with you.”

“Why?”

“Because I said please. Don't forget to remove your shoes. You'll dirty my rug.” Also purchased his first week. It was a pristine white besides black threads forming a compass, each point aimed accordingly. Decorating had been quite a bit of fun since, as he'd told Crowley, there was none of that in the group home. Admittedly, he'd gone a little overboard in the process. An entire wall was nothing but bookshelves that seemed to be getting fuller by the day, books misplacing the adorable knickknacks they'd unearthed at antique shops. So now his dresser had too many tiny items scattered across it. His matching bedside tables had more little things, including an ancient alarm clock that needed to be regularly wound[116] and lamps that glowed warmly when he wanted to use them instead of the overhead light. 

Crowley sighed, turning away, and very deliberately stomped his boots on the way out. Aziraphale smiled - after checking he hadn't left any dirt on his nice floor - and opened his book just to immediately change his mind. He rolled out of bed and picked the _Golden Treasury of English Songs and Lyrics_ off a shelf, trading the two. Crowley, no matter that he wouldn't admit it, did enjoy poetry. This would entertain him more than Wilde, at least in this mood. 

When he finally wandered in, Aziraphale had the blankets turned down at his left side and had already read two poems. He took the offered mug - just a simple white thing[117] to match Crowley's black one - with a smile and took a sip that immediately made him blink. “Well. Perhaps next time, you can save time and just add a teabag to the whiskey bottle. Save yourself a step in heating up the water.”

“Oh, you wanted water in yours?”[118]

“Devil,” Aziraphale playfully accused, wondering over the way Crowley's gaze shifted just a little. He decided not to comment, patting the space beside him. “Climb in, dearest.”

“Wot.” 

Aziraphale simply lifted his gaze. He'd absolutely heard him, but he apparently needed some convincing. Silly boy. Aziraphale set his mug amidst the clutter on his bedside table and patted the space again. “Before the tea gets cold, please.”

“Mnng- ngk- wuueeehnnng.”

“Fascinating argument. Come along now. I'm quite serious.” He didn't move. Aziraphale arched a brow. “Do you need more explicit instructions? I could probably provide a few if you gave me just a moment to dumb it all down.”

Crowley huffed at him, fingers tapping on his mug for a few seconds. Just as Aziraphale was going to start saying “left foot, right foot,” he crossed by the foot of the bed and slid in. He wasn't, Aziraphale happily noted, wearing his boots. “There. I'm here. Happy?” 

“Nearly.” Reaching over, Aziraphale stole his mug away and added it to his small table. It was a miracle that things didn't start falling off, but Aziraphale's concerns were his protesting, ah... boyfriend? No, beau. He liked beau much better. “A little closer now.”

“Dove, I already said-” 

“I know, darling. Not like that. It's just that you get standoffish when you're sad, and you aren't going to tuck me in my room whilst you go off moping elsewhere. I've decided against it.”

“Oh. Well. If _you've_ decided.”

Aziraphale cupped his cheek, other hand physically dragging him across the bed despite his undignified squawk of protest. “Stop trying to start a row with me. It isn't going to work.”

“I'm not trying to-” 

Aziraphale captured his lips to stop the contrarianism. At least for now. “You're sad,” he murmured, continuing before the argument in Crowley's eyes reached his mouth, “and so am I. I'm just not entirely certain why. Having that... Well, that person visiting us was clearly taxing, and I do not like how frightened you were.”

He didn't argue about that, which was somehow more worrying. Crowley was very good at saying what he wasn't - not nice, not sweet, not anything better than wicked. Yet he wouldn't say that this... _Bee_ hadn't frightened him. Aziraphale’s shoulders sagged. “Oh, Crowley...”

“Paris,” he insisted, an edge of desperation in it. “Let me take you to Paris. I know you want to go.”

They were running away, Aziraphale realized. Yes, it was for Crowley’s job, but that somehow felt like a convenient excuse. He didn’t _need_ to work. But he did need to take them away from London. He’d make it romantic and wonderful, of that Aziraphale had no doubts, but if he said yes, they would be fleeing.

That something in him - was it instinct? The “gut feeling” so often mentioned in his favorite mysteries and thrillers? And wasn’t the protagonist usually right? His gut instinct, if that’s what this was, said they couldn’t run forever.

And yet...

“Not only Paris. French vineyards are in the countryside.”

Crowley slumped against Aziraphale’s array of too-many pillows, eyes closing over his own emotions. That didn’t keep Aziraphale from seeing it. He knew well, now, how to read Crowley without seeing his eyes. The furrow of his brow, the twitch of his lips, even the scrunch of his nose - everything went smooth and relaxed in relief.

Aziraphale reached out, stroking a hand through his fluffy hair. How he got it to stay up without copious amounts of environmentally damaging aerosol products was beyond him, but he appreciated the softness threading through his fingers. “Will you take me to Italy, too? To all those little restaurants you’ve been talking about?”

“Yeah, dove, whatever you like.”

“Whatever I like?”

“Course.”

Aziraphale hummed and opened his book. “Oh, good. Then you’ll sit there and let me read to you.”

There was the scrunch, his entire face creasing here and there in protest. “Come _on_ , Aziraphale. That’s not-”

“Hush.” Smiling, Aziraphale passed Crowley’s mug back to him. “I’ll read to you for a bit, and you can have a nap if you like. And then we’ll make our travel plans. _Paris_.” He wiggled, finally able to watch Crowley’s lips quirk and his eyes crack open to watch the giddy movement. “Do you think I’ll like it?”

He sighed, giving in. Aziraphale did like when Crowley gave in. “You’ll love it, angel.”

* * *

* * *

### Footnotes

113. If Crowley waz lying about finding a modern Job and waz, in fact, juszt fucking a human... There would be Hell to pay.↩

114. He’s not exactly upset that Satan isn’t up there anyway. He’s just... curious.↩

115. The only armchair in the flat. Aziraphale hadn't yet worked up the nerve to ask Crowley to purchase a second one, but the black leather was extremely comfortable all the same.↩

116. Not that Aziraphale or Crowley knew it had to be wound. They just expected it to work and it did.↩

117. His angel wing mug was at the bookshop and Crowley, like anything else with an angelic aesthetic, was terrified about introducing Aziraphale to it. Crowley's an idiot. 💖↩

118. Crowley’s “tea” was literally just a mug of straight whiskey. He was willing, for the moment, to forego using the proper glassware so he and Aziraphale could both pretend he’d made himself an actual drink and not just a _drink_.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at [Syl-Writes-Stuff](https://syl-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/) and my lovely beta at [skimmingmilk](https://skimmingmilk.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Next chapter we earn our Explicit rating!


	13. Greenlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An angel tempts the tempter...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Our chapter song :D](https://open.spotify.com/track/5HgbcQFIHjNcn46w8ORwhu?si=WkbCE-FQTVyHO-TqAo-Xlg)
> 
> Thank you, [SkimmingTheSurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface) for being the best beta a gal could ask for. Even when you're in my footnotes and especially when you're helping me dialogue!
> 
> We earn our rating this chapter, folks. Tags have been updated accordingly.

_He is witty, graceful,  
_ _lovely to look at, lovable to be with.  
_ _He has also ruined my life,  
_ _so I can’t help loving him;  
_ _it is the only thing to do._

— Oscar Wilde

* * *

**_1987  
_** **_Mayfair, London_ **

Aziraphale rather liked traveling. He liked coming home more, but that had become a rare treat. In nearly two years since they’d left for Paris - and, _yes_ , Aziraphale had loved it as promised - they’d only returned to the flat six times and never for more than a week at a time. He’d seen nearly every inch of France and would still love to go back for more. They’d gone to Italy[119] and eaten gelato by marble fountains and Aziraphale had discovered exactly why Crowley loved little Italian restaurants. He’d quite thoroughly fallen in love with them too, though Parisian cuisine was still his favorite. The crêpes had been just as good as he remembered. Er. Expected. Hoped?

Regardless, he’d loved them. He loved them each and every time they went and had been absolutely spoiled.

He’d been spoiled in Japan, too. The _sushi_. Oh, and the markets in Korea! Crowley had made faces, but Aziraphale had been delighted by the kimchi. Such a unique flavour profile.

Their most recent trip to Germany had been a little heartbreaking, the Berlin Wall making Aziraphale highly uncomfortable. He’d laid a palm against the colorful side and said a prayer for the ones on the opposite. Families, he hoped, would be reunited one day. After telling Crowley, he’d vanished for a few hours. Not too terribly odd. He’d gotten rather used to Crowley’s often bizarre, sudden disappearances, and he always returned with something scrummy. This time, it had been a Black Forest gâteau they’d shared whilst watching the American president give quite the impassioned speech on their hotel telly.

“I didn’t realize the American government was in West Berlin.”[120]

Crowley had grunted around a cherry. “Guess that’s why they had part of the tube shut down.”

It had kept them out of Kreuzberg, which was a shame. Aziraphale had very much wanted to visit the Schwules Museum, but had been mollified by Crowley’s promises of next time. Thus far, he’d been very good at keeping his promises. 

And with Aziraphale’s eighteenth birthday right around the corner, there was another promise he was going to collect on.

Crowley had made it in Rome nearly a year ago. Something about the city had been absolutely charming, but some of it... Well, some of it had made Aziraphale _feel things_. Frustrated in some spots, delighted in others, _deeply_ sad in the Coliseum - as if he could hear and see the deaths of Gladiators, slaves forced to fight or die or both, yet had no way to stop it. Crowley had held his hand and let him weep.

But they’d found a little seafood restaurant, Crowley making the most absurd noises when Aziraphale had ordered a side of oysters with his meal. He’d dismissed them, as used to those as he was Crowley swanning off to do Heaven-knew-what, but he hadn’t been able to dismiss the deja vu when he’d sucked a shell clean. When he’d looked across the table and had seen Crowley but not. _Older, tight curls, laurel wreath, so handsome._ It had been quiet through the next oyster, Aziraphale reigning in the vision and enjoying the way his current Crowley watched him eat. 

He’d read somewhere that oysters were considered aphrodisiacs, but had decided that was hyperbolic folly. He certainly knew better now, though nothing had happened. Well, not _nothing_ , but nothing. Aziraphale had certainly, and shamelessly, tried for _something_. They’d gotten quite adept at kissing since that first clumsy attempt in a bookshop’s cooking section and sometimes lips trailed across throats and _sometimes_ hickeys were left. 

Well, Aziraphale’s mouth had started to trail and his hands had slid down - he was quite proud of himself for only shaking a little - and he’d no sooner touched Crowley’s belt than the gangly-limbed fool had been halfway across the room. He’d tripped over an ottoman, landing in a heap of blushing stutters and wild limbs, and had eventually explained that he didn’t feel right. With him being a legal adult already and Aziraphale still a teenager, he’d blustered about not taking advantage and wanting to treat Aziraphale the right way and, for Somebody’s sake, angel, the way you tempt me.[121]

It had been ridiculous and sweet and, well, he’d let Crowley have his way. How could he not? Crowley gave him so much and it would be incredibly unfair to not give and give in return. Besides, it had only made him even more certain that he’d chosen correctly. How could he ever love anyone else when Crowley existed? However exasperating, the consideration was so very like him. Taking advantage, indeed.

Two weeks, he thought, watching long legs eat up the concrete floor and not actually hearing a word of whatever complaints Crowley had about their weekly housekeeper[122] and her treatment of his plants while they were away. Anticipation was like lightning over his skin and static in his mind.

\----

For Crowley, the past two years had been lessons in patience, torture, and a four-letter word that just made him squirm. Being in such close contact with Aziraphale on a near-constant basis - an Aziraphale that still thought he was human, anyway - had forced him to get used to humanity in a way he hadn’t experienced in the previous six thousand years of wandering among them. He’d _bought_ clothes. His weird teenage body had undergone what Aziraphale had affectionately called a “growth spurt” and he’d outgrown and had to buy new clothes.

What the _fuck_.

He knew, though, that he still wasn’t his actual height so had another one of them to look forward to, and he knew Aziraphale did too. When did humans actually stop growing? Or was it random? How did bodies know when to stop? Oh, Hell, was he going to have to get a _book_ about this?

After making sure that Aziraphale wasn’t nearby, he snapped and his luggage unpacked and sorted itself out. It was one of the most tedious things in the entire world, packing and unpacking, and he absolutely refused to do it. He’d much rather watch Aziraphale, so he gave it five minutes, and then sauntered into the second bedroom. 

It had also come into being with a snap, though he should’ve expected his angel to want to do something with it. Soft colors, tartan quilt, bookshelves and knickknacks - the cluttered mess was the antithesis of Heaven’s emptiness yet too cosy and warm to match Hell’s cramped, dingy awfulness. It was very much suited to Aziraphale and maybe painting the walls had been more fun than he’d ever admit. 

Aziraphale looked up when the door opened, Crowley not bothering to knock. Sharing hotel rooms for two years had made separate bedrooms feel... odd. He leaned against the doorway, returning Aziraphale’s bright smile with a small one of his own. “Alright, angel?”

“Tickety-boo, dearest. Have you come to help me or just watch?”

“Ehhugh.” His laughter made Crowley’s heart stir. He’d gone so many years, so many centuries, hearing that laugh from a distance. Or hearing it too briefly when they had been able to be in one another’s company. He’d heard it nearly every day for two years and still hadn’t had enough. “You look like you’ve got it.”

“Wicked thing.” Aziraphale hung wrinkle-free shirts in his armoire. “I don’t even know why I’m bothering. You’re sure to whisk us off somewhere again soon.”

“I was thinking the States next time. There’s plenty of those to explore.”

“Gosh.” Aziraphale tucked folded trousers in his dresser, tutting at him. “I think you have enough fodder for at least a hundred articles, considering that you only need twenty-four in an entire year.”

And he was, weirdly, enjoying them. He didn’t write as Anthony J. Crowley, but he still knew the published words were his and there was a bizarre sort of thrill to it when Aziraphale would pick up a magazine and read some of his words. He’d been collecting Aziraphale’s books and papers for so long that the thought of his own stuff - besides private letters he’d never been able to force himself to reread - joining the collection was an exciting sort of thing. He also liked to think he was pretty good at it because Aziraphale was actually willing to read them. 

“Guess we'll just have to go for fun.”

“I suppose we will. Do you think we can stay home for a while, though, dearest? Just through the rest of July. It's been ages since we've walked through London.”

It had been. And London, in its way, had pulled Crowley in. England had, anyway, not necessarily London itself. He wouldn't mind slithering off to the countryside. More nature out and about in the country, more than what they could get here. But Aziraphale's home was the bookshop and Crowley was more than fine staying there once he was able to, ah, gift it to him. 

Besides, the countryside was more like... a pipe dream. A wish for a retirement he could never have. Hell would always expect things from him. He wasn't looking forward to the fallout when this “modern day Job” died and still didn't head downwards. But he'd figure that out when he came to it. Make some excuse up about Archangels. 

Whatever. 

“Yeah, dove, we can stay. Maybe we can head to the Ritz?” he asked just to see Aziraphale's gaze go misty. 

To his surprise, Aziraphale smiled mischievously. “You'll have to wear a tie.”

 _Fuck_. “The Hell I will.”

“It's the dress code.” Aziraphale giggled, zipping his luggage up and taking the suitcases off of his bed. And there were the misty eyes. “Oh, and I could wear a bowtie! I'll need to get one. And a walk through the park afterwards would be so lovely, wouldn't it? We should go to the Kensington Gardens. Or St. James’s Park since it's nearer.”

“Right.” He slinked in further, folding his sunglasses in his shirt as he dropped onto the edge of Aziraphale's bed. Then he realized something. “Hang on, it's July already?” 

Aziraphale shook his head, wandering away to run his fingers over the spines of his books. It had been a good long while since he'd been able to curl up and read something, and Crowley imagined he’d go cover to cover in one sitting. “Yes.”

Crowley watched him. _July_. For this life, Aziraphale's sixteenth birthday had involved Crowley picking him up from the group home for a date and assurances that, yes, he still wanted Aziraphale to move in with him. His seventeenth had been spent in France, along the coast, toes dipped in warm water and Aziraphale's laughter on the breeze. 

And now... 

Oh, now it was his eighteenth. Crowley’s heart skipped. “You really want to stay in London through July?” 

“Yes, I do.”

Crowley's brow furrowed, a hand waving. “Wha- But where do you want to go for your birthday, dove?” 

“Oh, I was thinking we'd stay in, my dear boy...” 

“Wot? It's your eighteenth! You only turn eighteen- mmnuu err... Once.” Normally. If they were normal. 

“No, really, dearest. I would like to stay in. In bed. All day.” 

Crowley paused. “With a book?” 

Aziraphale turned, a book chosen, and he met Crowley's gaze evenly. It wasn’t an uncertain pause, but a serious one, and Crowley felt it in his bones. “With you.” 

There was another long pause, this one not uncertain or serious but panicky. Crowley's pulse raced as Aziraphale continued to look at him. Watch him. Wait for him. “Oh,” he managed.[123]

Cherry red lips curved and Crowley's heart clenched. Who, he wondered, was really the tempter here? “We would both be legal adults, wouldn't we? You did say that's what you wanted to wait for. I haven't changed my mind, Crowley. You're still the only person I want. You're all I've ever wanted.”

Crowley made a wheezing sort of sound, hands falling behind him to grip the sheets when Aziraphale came closer. When Aziraphale cupped his cheeks and sealed their lips together. Crowley shuddered, the heat of it searing his skin. The nineteen year old body got hard just as easily as the seventeen year old one had, and his jeans were _very_ tight by the time Aziraphale's tongue left his mouth and took his breath away with it. “Mnngh, eugh, _ngk_.”

“Two weeks,” Aziraphale whispered and kissed his cheek before turning and walking out. 

Two weeks. Crowley collapsed back, staring at the ceiling. Anticipation was like lightning over his skin and static in his mind.

\----

They spent two weeks apart. Well, no, they didn’t. They’d grown so used to having one another around, to sharing meals, and Aziraphale did love cooking. They’d picked up a new cookbook in France, and he was eager to try his hand at baking next. Crowley was happy to support every endeavor, even though the first three batches of cookies ended up in the trash and he’d been banished to the living room.

There weren’t any Hellish communications, but he took the time to finish his latest report while Dorothy’s cutting quips went right over Rose’s sweet, ditzy head. He liked the actress who played Rose, and they’d met whilst he’d been tempting Jackie Collins. She’d have as long a life as he could ensure for her.

But different rooms in the same flat and the occasional walk or drive was as “apart” as they’d get. Crowley had been waiting too long for this opportunity and instinct told Aziraphale not to waste a moment. They bickered and had arguments, of course. Not every day of their relationship had been sunshine and roses, but neither of them doubted that this was going to last a lifetime. One of them just happened to know “lifetime” had a very bizarre definition and the other did not.

They didn’t tend to stay angry with one another for long anyway, one or both of them[124] giving up and smoothing the way. Not always with a verbal apology as Crowley was uncomfortable delivering them, but Aziraphale was learning his wordless language. Crowley said a lot more with gifts, with attention, with dates than he did with his mouth. It balanced out Aziraphale, who tended to say quite a bit with his mouth and struggled with each of Crowley's birthdays thus far. He seemed to be able to have anything he wanted in an instant, so gift giving was nearly impossible. 

But time was easily given. He'd sidle up early in the morning when Crowley was still blinking the sleep out of his eyes, force him to make a decision on something he'd like to do that day, and then they'd go off together. For one day a year, Aziraphale let him drive his car too fast, play his music too loud, and, unbeknownst to most of Aziraphale, he'd be an angel through and through for just a few minutes. 

“I don't even know why I'm doing this,” he'd said the first time. “It's not a _real_ birthday.”

“I should've picked something better. Y'know, I'm a Sagittarius?” 

“Ah, yes, a paragon of honesty.”

“Shut up. You're a Leo.”

“Oh, good Lord.”

Crowley's grin had been as bright and playful as Aziraphale had ever seen it. “We should swap.”

“We'll do no such thing, you ridiculous creature.” Easy, comfortable silence had fallen for a bit, Aziraphale pinching him and making him jump. “Do you know what else an actual Sagittarius is, my dear? Emotionally intelligent.”

“Are you ragging on me right now?! On my fake birthday, mind!” 

And they'd laughed together and it had been easier, not so sad, when he'd tucked his angeldom away again. It was hard to be sad when the peeks pleased Crowley as much as they did and, well, they also meant he was doing things well. Aziraphale was happy, inside and out. A demon could get into a lot of trouble for doing the right thing, but that didn't worry him as much as it had on Eden's Eastern wall. He'd continue to do the right thing for one being.

Even though the right thing was a little tricky the eve of Aziraphale's thousandth-plus eighteenth birthday, Crowley nearly vibrating in place as he pretended to watch television. He was sprawled across the couch, Aziraphale tucked in the armchair with a reading lamp hanging over him. His hair was haloed by the golden light, leaving him looking every bit the angel he was. 

An angel who wanted to spend his day in bed with a demon. 

That, of course, was the latest ick in his feelings about the whole situation. The age thing had been a very easy thing to tell Aziraphale, but this was different. Aziraphale, believing himself to be human, wanted Crowley, who he also believed to be human. It was a lie and it made consent... sticky.

And, yes, he was a demon. Consent shouldn’t even be in the conversation. But _everything_ involving Aziraphale required thorough conversation and mental preparation and two weeks had really not been enough.

Aziraphale, pretending to read in the armchair with his hair under that halo-like lamp, knew Crowley was fretting. He didn’t know what about, not entirely, but could tell when he actually got off the couch to change the channel when Dorothy, Rose, and Blanche began talking about birthdays gone by. He had to swallow a smile lest he see, knowing Crowley could change the channel without getting up. He wasn’t able to let his mind drift to exactly _how_ Crowley might do that, but he did know. All of their words were buried because he knew what the triggers were.

In 1601, Crowley had taught him that it was possible to be himself in snatches.

From 1793 to 1800, Crowley had taught him that they could be together for stretches of time and it not be a danger.

In 1941, Crowley had taught him that he could be awake and aware so long as his vocabulary was stunted.

They’d all been valuable building blocks, ones that wouldn’t have taken nearly so long to climb had the rebellious creature before him not also been the most cautious and caring darling in all the world. Going all the way back to 41,[125] when he’d shouted hurt, defiant words on Aziraphale’s behalf and left before he could cause any damage.

Aziraphale didn’t know if it would’ve caused any damage then, but he knew it wouldn’t now. He knew where his heart was and he knew where Crowley’s was as well, and Aziraphale was going to cradle that precious gift in his palms for the rest of eternity.

At midnight, he closed his book. The wards on him were pulling taut, but he had enough time to convince his precious fool that a day in bed would be a day well spent. Not that Crowley knew that, gaze flicking to and away when Aziraphale rose and tucked his book on a shelf. He hadn’t even put a bookmark in it. Crowley tried not to think too deeply on it, gaze fixated on whatever the Hell was happening on the television screen until it turned off.

And not because of him. 

His gaze slid over to Aziraphale just as he clicked off the lamp, but he’d seen the knowledge in his gaze and it made his heart start to kick out of rhythm. He very genuinely could not remember the last time Aziraphale had _actively_ performed a miracle around him. Only the dim light of the streetlamps outside lit him now and it was difficult to breathe as he watched him step closer and closer to the couch. He was so used to drawing in air that he forgot he could just switch that bodily function off, choking on a sound when Aziraphale’s fingers raked through his hair. “Come along, darling.”

“I- It’s- _ngk_. It- mnngh, er, that-”

“It’s my, ah, birthday, and you did promise.”

“S’not tomorrow yet.”

“It certainly is. It’s after midnight.”

“That-” He checked his watch and, _oh_ , it was. And he was getting full and complete consent. Crowley swallowed hard. “No... no sin in it, then.”

“Not a smidge. You’ll have to leave it out of your reports, you poor thing. Now please, dearest, we’ve both waited so long. Take me to bed.”

Aziraphale cupped his cheek and had to back down. All of him would enjoy this, but the part that was humanized would have to take lead. Which was just as well, really. The angel didn’t think he’d be able to avoid their words once Crowley’s hands found skin and, well, Crowley thought the same.

Aziraphale was left knowing only that he’d asked Crowley to come to bed, the touch of his cheek gentling from firm angel to nervous human. Not that the angel bits weren’t nervous, but the angel bits had been waiting a Heaven of a lot longer than three years. 41 to 1987 was quite the gap. “We can wait until morning for all of it, if you like, but I’d like to at least lay beside you tonight. I’m afraid hotel rooms have spoiled me, dearest, and I’m entirely too used to you at least being in the same room as me when we go to sleep.”

Crowley laid his hand over Aziraphale’s, turning his cheek to press a kiss to the palm. It wasn’t the first time he’d done so, but the angel trembled just the same. “I’m wide awake, dove. You?”

“Oh, yes,” he breathed.

Anticipation was like lightning over their skin and static in their minds.

Crowley rolled off the couch, leaving his hand in Aziraphale’s as he found his feet, and he was tugged across the barely lit room to reach the hallway. “Gosh, I haven’t even asked which bedroom.”

“Yours. You’ve got the more comfortable bed.”

“Well, that’s your own fault, I think. You can certainly afford better.”

Crowley didn’t know where the laughter came from, but it bubbled up and out. “You absolute prat.”

“How very dare you. I’m _correct_ ,” Aziraphale insisted, smile tugging at his lips and his heart beating a little faster. 

Aziraphale didn't _actually_ know what to expect. The extent of his education had been abstain until marriage. As if one was supposed to magically know what to do with a person's body when they saw it. _Unofficially_ , he'd gotten a bit of, ah, self-education. Sometimes,[126] when Crowley watched him eat, he'd find himself slowing down. Savouring every bite, letting flavours sink into his tongue and hover, as long as there was food on his plate and golden eyes on him. 

And, well, that sort of attention did tend to make its way southward. Whilst Crowley took care of the dishes, Aziraphale occasionally snuck off to the bathroom, closed his eyes, and... pretended. Pretended that the hands on him weren't his own, pretended those molten eyes were lingering and _enjoying_ and then he'd shove his fist in his mouth to muffle his own sounds and then... 

Well, then he'd clean up and he'd fret about it. He hadn't gone blind from it yet, though, so the abstinence education on the topic had clearly not been as accurate as they'd leave a person to believe. He wasn't diseased, either, and he certainly hadn't been struck down for his fantasies. 

Fantasies that might come true. However tame they were, they felt scandalous to him. But nothing about it felt... wrong. 

Nothing about stopping beside his bed and smiling up at Crowley felt wrong. The anticipation was still under the surface, adding gooseflesh to his arms and stirring his heart. Lifting those arms was easy, Crowley's hands falling to his waist, and Aziraphale sighed happily when their bodies could press together. He lifted up to his toes just to drop back down, feeling himself press against the slender lines of his beau. 

“Angel,” Crowley sighed, only encouraging him to do it again and that was... That was fine, better than. Aziraphale had gotten chubbier than he'd been when he'd found him at that concert. Good food wasn't as hard to come by with Crowley - he made sure of it - and this angel was meant to be soft. Crowley wanted soft and warm skin against him, pressing, rubbing, under his mouth, his tongue, his teeth- “Angel,” he repeated, more of a gasp when shy teeth found him first. A nibble at his neck. 

Something he'd felt before, done before in turn, but it made his blood swim. “I love you,” was whispered in the crook of his neck, and it was soft and sweet and-

Crowley’s hands tightened, chin tucking in so Aziraphale would have to stop playing vampire and look at him. It had never been said before. It had never _needed_ to be said, not like that. Not just the simple three words. They'd created a code for it. The whole no sin in this business had been Crowley's way of asking and being told that the feelings were there. They didn't _say it_. 

“Aziraphale...”

“I- I just thought you should know before we... In case you had any more doubts and were planning on having one of your little panics.”

It didn't _need_ to be said. It hadn't been needed between Adam and Eve in the early days. They'd known, they'd understood, but post-apple... 

He remembered feeling a rumble in the Earth, knowing somehow that there was an exit. One of the gates had become an actual gate and, well, he'd instinctively gone East. Adam had followed first; Eve - expectant mother that she'd been - had been more hesitant to follow the tempting snake.

Watching them, Crawly had learned new definitions of love. He'd only known one in his existence to that point, the all-encompassing (smothering) one of God, and it had been, in some ways, like the love between a Master and a Pet. Others had said it was like being Her children, but Crawly had never felt that. He wondered, and had many times before, if that wasn't part of the Fall. And he'd assumed with Her love gone, that was all. It's what they'd been told: “ _Without Her, there is nothing. Nothing is better_.”

He'd believed it. There hadn't been a reason not to. His eyes had still burned, his wings had still burned, having a form with limbs had _burned_. There was nothing in what he'd thought had been his heart. 

Until he'd been mid-hiss with two brand new humans, trying to urge them along, and Adam had said, “Nothing is going to happen to the baby. Or to you. I _love_ you. I'll keep you safe, whatever I have to do.”

Love, he'd said. Crawly hadn't been able to, and still couldn't, feel it in the air. But he'd believed it, coming from Adam even as he'd been cast out of Her garden. His, _their_ , own Heaven, they'd fallen from grace because Crowley had tempted them into just one bite. He'd made them fall, yet... 

Eve had placed her hand into Adam's. “I love you too. If you think it's right, I'll trust you.”

Two kinds of love. One strong enough to protect and the other strong enough to trust. Both, however, strong enough for _choice_. Choosing to love seemed so much bigger and brighter than simply having it foisted upon one’s being.

They loved without force, though. They had chosen it. They _loved_. He hadn't felt, but he'd heard and he'd seen. They loved without Her garden and proof of their blessings. They loved without Her. And Adam had kept his promise, doing everything he could do to protect them. Because he loved. 

Then Crawly had seen the hole in the Eastern gate, no angel pacing at his post, and he'd thought... He'd thought so much, so fast. There had been such a _pressure_ in his chest, something loose and warm and wonderful but also burning hot and tight and wretched. And it hadn't been Her love, but something different and new and wrapped up in an angel who was too sweet for Hell. He'd panicked and dropped back into Hell himself, but hadn't been able to stand it for long.

Besides, Crawly was nothing if not curious. 

Maybe he'd been imagining it. Faking the feelings. Pretending he understood them. Eyes, wings, body burning, he'd alighted onto the wall beside an angel. 

_“I gave it away!”_ Aziraphale had said, and Crawly had thought _I_ love _you. I'll keep you safe, whatever I have to do._ The burning had faded. Adam and Eve didn’t need Her to be whole and, perhaps, neither did he.

“Sssay it again?” Crowley managed now. It wasn't the first time Aziraphale had heard him hiss. He'd called it an adorable lisp, and that adoring look was still there. 

Aziraphale gently, so gently, cupped his cheeks. It was such a human thing, these words. “I love you, Crowley.”

 _I_ love _you. I'll keep you safe, whatever I have to do._

_There's no sin in love, Crowley._

They were world-altering words. Trillions had lived and died on the strength of them. They'd been in every language since the beginning. They were the first written and the most talked about, written about, sung about, debated, twisted, and hadn't he promised himself that he wouldn't love Aziraphale in the dark this life? 

He unfurled them, the dust of over six thousand years of disuse catching in the dim light he felt he could cast over them. “I love you too,” a demon whispered and an angel kissed him. 

It wasn't Rome, it wasn't Edinburgh, it wasn't a bomb or a bookshop with a desperate plea between them and a burning church clinging to their senses, it wasn't clumsily against cookbooks, it wasn’t the dozens of others that had followed in the two years since. It was in Mayfair in a room they'd painted together, laughed in, cuddled in. A flat they'd argued in, flirted in, done more cuddling and laughing in. It wasn't the beginning of them, but it certainly wasn't the end. 

“Do you know what we're doing?” Aziraphale whispered, hesitant to ruin the mood of the kiss. He wanted Crowley to take care of him, but he was also just as keen on taking care of him in turn. Those two kinds of love Crowley had learned that long ago day in Eden didn't have to be mutually exclusive. Aziraphale felt them both with every beat of his heart. “Er, _how_ to do it?” 

Crowley had written more reports on orgies than he wanted to think about back when they'd been all the rage and he'd tempted millions besides, checking things off a list.[127] He'd watched Adam and Eve go at it once, too curious and too bored with all the dull _goodness_ around him, and there'd been a spark. There'd been something between them, a moment where plain good had become something Great. 

But had he ever _done_ any of it with humans?

Yuck. No. 

Had he _imagined_ it? 

_Yes_. Aziraphale's hands, Aziraphale’s mouth, Aziraphale’s body, skin, sounds, wings, beautiful blue eyes-

“I've got a general idea of the mechanics. I've seen some things, is all.”

Aziraphale’s brows lifted high and Crowley grinned. “Dare I even ask?” 

“Probably not. But there's only ever been you, Aziraphale. You're every fantasy.”

“Even though I'm getting a bit, ah, pudgy?” 

“I _love_ that you're pudgy. All soft and warm and mine. You're all mine, dove. My angel.” Crowley inched his hands up, fingers only just slipping beneath the sweater vest. “We'll start slow, yeah? Some hands.”

“And kissing?” Aziraphale wondered quietly, eyes glowing. 

Crowley's hand left only to flick on a bedside lamp. “Lots of kissing. I wonder what your thighs taste like.”

“Gosh.” But it wasn’t a shocked word so much as a curious one, Aziraphale pressing his clothed thighs together as if Crowley's words alone were physical things. They certainly felt like it, leaving him with a fresh dose of arousal. But it wasn’t like electricity, crackling and desperate. It was like... a warm bath. Gentle water lapping at his skin. He swayed closer to Crowley, letting him work off his sweater vest. 

“Be easier if this had buttons.”

“I think I'd love a proper waistcoat, yes. That wouldn't embarrass you?” 

“Nothing you do embarrasses me,” he lied, Aziraphale letting out a delighted laugh because of course it was a lie. He loved embarrassing Crowley. It was among his top ten favourite activities, as a matter of fact. 

At least the shirt underneath had buttons. The sleeves were short in deference to the summer heat, and it was a creamy white. He let Crowley undo every single button, shivering when gentle fingers stroked over newly bared skin, slid down his arms when the shirts got pushed down them. Then Crowley took his hands, lifted one then the other to his lips to linger over the knuckles. “Oh, darling,” Aziraphale murmured. It wasn't a gentleness Crowley was used to doling out, but it was surprisingly easy for Aziraphale. Even when he freed his hands and reached for the hem of his t-shirt. “May I?” 

“You really have to ask?” 

Aziraphale huffed lightly. “I have _manners_.”

“That what you want, dove? Manners?” 

Aziraphale paused, hearing the uncertainty under the question, and lifted his gaze. “No, my sweet dear-” 

“ _Ngk_.”

“I'm quite taken with you exactly as you are.” Aziraphale whisked the shirt away. It wasn't the first time he'd seen Crowley without one. Anytime they reached a coast, he was happy to dive into the surf, so much of his skin on display. Aziraphale didn’t particularly mind, though.

Just as Crowley didn't mind that Aziraphale never swam with him.[128] So Aziraphale had gotten several looks by this point, but he'd never been able to touch. He followed the same careful path Crowley had taken over his body, though his hands found flat firmness instead of round curves. And, for Crowley, it was like stepping into a column of flame. The tendrils licking at his skin, heating as it healed. Was he healing, somehow? 

He shivered. “Angel...”

“Goodness, Crowley, how do you get out of those things?” They looked down at his denims, clinging as tightly as ever to his legs. 

Miracles, mostly. One loosened them enough to not _look_ any different but ensured they'd be far easier to remove. “Want to see?” he teased.

“No,” Aziraphale replied, startling Crowley into looking up at him. He found shy want looking back, the angel’s smile as sweet as the pink dusting his cheeks. “I want to- to finish undressing you myself. If I may.”

 _Manners_ , it turned out, were very attractive. “Go for it.”

“Thank you,” he replied, prim and prissy enough to remind Crowley of the Bastille. How he'd looked with his brocade jacket and gold filigree. Crowley's mouth went dry as much from the memory of how beautiful he'd been then as from how beautiful he was now. Topless and very carefully undoing the snap of his denims. The zip. 

Aziraphale wet his lips and the _sound_ Crowley made had him doing it again. A little more deliberately, a little more the... provocateur. It almost made him giggle, but there wasn’t a stitch of fabric beneath Crowley's trousers and he hadn't been nearly ready to see _everything_. His body seemed quite ready, prick stirring in his trousers. _And_ his pants because he wasn't some- some hooligan. Except he sank down to his knees to drag Crowley's tight denims down long legs and the moan that wrung out of Crowley would stay in his mind for a very long time. 

He looked up when a hand fell into his hair, trying to look at his face and not the, ah, arousal trying to poke his cheek. “Angel, I don't think- Somebody's sake, the sight of you on your knees like this is...”

“It's something good, it seems.”

His shaft perked up even more. “Mnngh.”

Aziraphale almost echoed the ridiculous sound, captivated as he was. He'd never seen one besides his own and Crowley's just kept swelling under his gaze. Long and jutting out from dark auburn curls, pointing slightly rightward and uncut, which was very different from his own. As he committed the sight to memory, Crowley just kept making helpless sounds of want. They were intoxicating, his own body responding in all the ways that usually made him need some time for, ah, self-discovery. 

Clearing his throat, Aziraphale dropped his gaze to untie Crowley's boots. He helped him out of them, his denims, his socks, and Crowley's noises quieted as he waited for him to say something, _anything_. 

Until he did and Crowley's knees went weak. “Darling, you're gorgeous.”

“Get up here right now so I can kiss you.”

That was easier. That was familiar ground for both of them, though the way their bare torsos pressed together elicited twin moans. And then Crowley dropped to his knees and Aziraphale knew _exactly_ why Crowley had reacted the way he had. He squirmed in place, hands lifted to cover the way his cheeks burned. He'd asked for this, had wanted this and still did, but he hardly knew how to handle the attention. 

Crowley smiled. His hands lingered on Aziraphale's trousers, but he didn't undo the button. It only made the anticipation and the squirming worse, heat pooling low and- 

“Crowley, _please_.” There was too much desperation in his tone. He heard it, Crowley heard it, and only one of them knew why it was there. “Don't go still. I- I very much want to be- I want to be _in_ bed with you, so don't dilly-dally.”

“That's the most un-sexy word you could've used right then.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat, slipping a hand into Crowley's hair to muss up the coif. The sound of his zip made his hips sway forward. “I don't think your, ah, bits agree with you.”

“I'm going to have to teach you some slang, dove. Were you about to say penis?” 

The little tug of his hair only made Crowley's fingers falter and another sound escape from his lips, so Aziraphale carefully pulled again. Gosh. “I grew up in a group home, not a monastery. I know, er, prick and, ah...”

“Oh, say ‘cock,’ angel, I'm begging you.”

“Shush,” he said instead, blush returning in full as his pants disappeared with his trousers. His thick wool socks went when Crowley helped him step out of the rest. He was left just as bare, just as open to perusal. His gaze skittered away. He knew what he looked like in the buff, the way his bits sprung from neat platinum curls. Shorter than Crowley's, but thicker. Much like them, actually, which made him squirm all the more. 

“Oh,” Crowley grunted, and Aziraphale didn’t see the hunger in golden eyes with his own gaze averted.

“I know I'm not quite as- as lovely as you, but-” 

“You're ssstunning. Somebody's sake, angel, look at you.”

Aziraphale would rather look at Crowley, frankly, so did. His golden eyes were practically glowing and some ridiculous part of Aziraphale compared them to a halo. Twin halos watching him, drinking in the sight of him as if he really was stunning, really worth looking at, really worth loving. “Bed, please. Please, Crowley, I don't only want you to look.”

Crowley rose, pulled him close, and when their groins brushed, it was like lightning all over again. Aziraphale whimpered, knees going unsteady, so Crowley simply swept him up and deposited him in the center of the bed, making him gasp and actually giggle very briefly in the process before he got self-conscious again. 

“Oh- Is laughter allowed?” he wondered, watching Crowley climb onto the bed to join him. Aziraphale's hands seemed to have a mind of their own, reaching automatically, finding his shoulders, hesitantly slipping down Crowley’s back as he crawled up, straddled his waist.

“I think anything's _allowed_ , angel. Well, I mean, not anything but-” He waved a hand. “Ngk. I like your laugh.”

Humming, Aziraphale let his hands settle at Crowley’s waist. “So... if we both enjoy something, it should be allowed.”

“Yeah.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I'll agree to those rules. I, um, I l-like you above me like this.”

“That's good. I like being on you.” It got even better when he leaned down, when they were able to feel their skin pressed together. 

Aziraphale squirmed beneath him, gasping at the litany of sensations, and Crowley's groan didn't help. The way his hand slid down, hesitating only a little before he cupped Aziraphale's length, made his back bow. “Crowley!” 

“Too much?” he murmured, fascinated by the feel of him, the weight of him and the way it felt different from his own. 

“O-oh, no, I- I like it very much.” He liked it more when Crowley smiled and curled his fingers around him. Aziraphale gasped as he started to move, legs unable to spread until they rearranged.

Crowley settled between them, other hand falling to one of his thighs to feel the muscles jump and flex under his palm. “You're beautiful,” he murmured. “I want to see you- Move for me? Just your hipsss.” Aziraphale started to rock into the touch, cheeks burning as he took turns between watching Crowley's face and his hand. “That's it, dove. My beautiful angel.”

“Crowley,” he moaned in return, bending his knees and planting his feet to rock up faster, to chase his hand every time it slid up as his confidence perked. His own hands were clinging to one of Crowley’s arms and bunched in the sheets respectively. When he was alone, he didn't try to make it last. When he was alone, it was embarrassing and needed to be over with as quickly as possible. 

Yet with Crowley, the pressure was building faster than normal without any of the anxiety that came with being alone, and he tried to keep release at bay. He tried to bite back sounds of need and pleasure as Crowley's fingers explored every inch of that sensitive muscle. 

Until the hand left his thigh and cupped a ruddy cheek. “Don't hide, angel. Let me have it all. Nice and loud. Tell me what you like.”

“That-!” Aziraphale gasped, captured by golden eyes. “Oh- Oh, my sweet, that- Y-your hands are so- Come closer, please.”

Hand slipping from his cheek to the pillow beside his head, Crowley leaned down over him, long fingers still working over his length. Kneading and stroking in some of the ways he himself liked, and in some new, testing ways just to see what would make Aziraphale's toes curl and more of those eager sounds spill. He rubbed over the tip, spreading the leaking slick down, rubbed his thumb against his sack to feel the way he tightened. “Crowley-!” Aziraphale's thighs tried to press together, but were blocked by Crowley’s knees, and he _whined_. 

Crowley shuddered. “Oh, angel. My angel, my sweet dove. It's okay to let go. There'll be more.”

“Oh-! I don't think-” He surely couldn’t handle anything more than this. More than that warm hand, those wicked fingers, those gold eyes so close to his, seeing him and wanting him. Oh, oh, Crowley wanted _him_. “M-more?” 

“More,” he promised, sealing their lips together. The pitch forward made Crowley’s wrist twist, fingers sliding over soft flesh in a new way, and Aziraphale wailed - _wailed_ \- into the kiss as his release streaked their stomachs, coated Crowley's fingers. 

Crowley broke the kiss to watch him, awed by the way his hips continued to rut, continued to wring out every drop of pleasure. How the red flush of his cheeks had crept down into his sweat-sheened chest. Like a pink-petaled rose in the morning dew. 

Like a beautiful angel reaching new heights with his first lover. 

Beneath them, the world didn't open to swallow Aziraphale whole. His halo didn't burst onto their plane to break anymore than his wings did to blacken. There was no sin in love, even here between a demon and an angel. Crowley had believed it, of course he had, but... 

Aziraphale cupped his cheek, slid a hand through his hair. “Crowley,” he sighed, decadent and heavy-limbed and somehow relieved. He didn't know where the relief came from, but didn't have the desire to search for reasons. “You love me,” he murmured. 

“For an eternity,” he promised. “And you... Nngh.”

“I love you,” he promised, kissing his lips. “I love you.” His jaw. “I love you.” His throat. And down he went while Crowley hovered over him and shook, over one shoulder then the other, the words falling again and again, pressing like those lips into his skin. 

When he finally said something else, it was, “Can I touch you?” Shy and soft as if his own seed wasn't drying on their skin. 

“ _Yes_.”

“With you, ah, on top of me like this?” 

“Anything you want.”

“No, we already agreed-” Aziraphale pinched him, whatever he was planning to say in response lost under Crowley’s embarrassing moan. Aziraphale watched his head fall back with it, hips rolling forward. _Gosh_. “You liked that,” he breathed. 

Crowley bit his lip, sucked it briefly. “Bit.”

“I'll have to do it again.”

Crowley wanted to deny or argue or comment somehow on the wicked way that sounded, but he could only suck in a sharp breath when a firm hand wrapped around his cock. “ _Angel_.”

The grip was firm enough that Crowley realized that was how Aziraphale liked to be touched, though the thought of him touching himself made Crowley’s brain short-circuit even more. But Aziraphale also wasn't completely confident, so his hand flexed a few times instead of stroking, making Crowley writhe and squirm above him. 

“Loosen up a little, dove, and move your hand.”

“Oh, yes,” he murmured, the first stroke almost painfully slow when Crowley was so pent up. Six thousand years of loving him, wanting him - it had started long before Rome, if he was honest with himself - and now he was there. Under him, that bottom lip caught between his teeth as he watched his own hand move over Crowley’s length. “Do you like- You have all this extra,” Aziraphale murmured. 

Wonderingly, he moved curious fingers over his foreskin, sliding it down to reveal the shining tip, and his thumb brushed over that next. Crowley _whimpered_ , unable to even be humiliated by it as he shifted higher on Aziraphale's belly. Closer to the source of pleasure. “Foreskin. It's- M'not going into an anatomy lesson with you right now.”

“Later, then.”

“ _Hng_.”

Lips quirking at the corners, Aziraphale slid the wet down as Crowley had done for him, and there was quite a bit of it. “Did you... like touching me?” Because Aziraphale was certainly enjoying this. He liked that Crowley had shifted closer, that thighs were pressing into his hips, that his head kept falling back so Aziraphale could follow the long lines of him. Gorgeous creature. _His_ gorgeous creature. 

“Yesss,” he hissed, eyes squeezing shut as he rocked his hips to encourage Aziraphale's strokes as they steadily grew more confident and sure. “Loved it. Loved watching you come apart under my hands. Wanna- wanna get my mouth on, oh, fuck, _Angel_ -!” 

It wasn't a pained outcry, so Aziraphale elicited another with another rub of his thumb right at the base of his length. “Your mouth?” he wondered, shivering beneath him. 

Crowley nodded, pushing himself up to move better, and Aziraphale felt himself harden. _Oh_. He usually just had one release and then stopped touching himself. This was very different. Really, it was probably a good thing for Crowley that the education had been as lacking as it was. No one had taught Aziraphale how things “should work” so they worked as expected. As they should for an angel who was willing to make an Effort. 

And his Effort was _very_ interested in the picture Crowley made, Aziraphale’s hand keeping still now just to watch Crowley move. Quick hips, bunching thigh muscles, the pale column of his throat begging to be marked as it pushed those delicious sounds from his lips. 

Watching him, entranced, Aziraphale started to talk. “You're beautiful. Stunning, darling. The way you move is incredible. I love you. The way you look right now, the way you are.” His hips moved out of rhythm, some of the sounds quieting, and Aziraphale realized just as Crowley did that the words were _good_. 

“Oh, darling... Of course you can put your mouth on me. Put your hands and lips wherever you like. And let me do the same, dearest. Dearest mine. The sounds you make.”

“Fuck, fuck, Aziraphale-” 

“Let go,” he pleaded, echoing Crowley’s words. And, oh, it had felt like that. Letting go of an edge and tumbling into something marvelous. Alone never felt so wonderful and he ached to give it to Crowley. “Let go, darling, please. I want more with you.” His hand stopped being passive, resuming its strokes, and he pinched Crowley's hip.

He bit his lip to keep the gasp at bay when Crowley cried out. His own name rattled between his ears as he watched Crowley spill over him in streak after streak of shuddering release. In contrast to Aziraphale's desperate chase for every bit of sensation, Crowley went still as he came and let out a string of garbled noises when Aziraphale continued to stroke. To guide him through it, get every bit, until Crowley limply batted his hand away. 

“Killing me, dove.”

“Only a little death, sweet. I think you enjoyed it.”

Crowley looked down, Aziraphale’s eyes more smugly sparkling than shy, and arched a brow. “What possibly gave you that idea?” 

“The way you bellowed my name, I think.” Aziraphale beamed, mood too high and Crowley's attempted glare too amused. “I think this is going to be a very good day. Don't you?” 

Leaning down, Crowley captured his lips and felt Aziraphale's wet hand hesitate before giving in and cupping a hip. He had to stop himself from cleaning up with a miracle, but that was alright. They were far from finished. 

“Probably gonna be the best day of my life so far.”[129]

Aziraphale giggled. “I think so too.”[130]

* * *

* * *

### Footnotes

119. Never Vatican City, though Aziraphale was curious. His instincts, of which he had been learning to listen to, told him not to ever let Crowley near it. So he never asked to go.↩

120. Aziraphale really was and had always been just awful with politics. But then, Crowley knew how to avoid the anti-Reagan protests since he’d been the one tasked with stirring them up. Heaven, he’d noticed, was being awfully lax in their communications to Aziraphale considering just how volatile the world currently was. Not one single thing from A. Gabriel. Aziraphale may have been young still, but really? Something seemed off.↩

121. Yes, that does mean that Crowley’s had two separate opportunities to have sex with Aziraphale in Rome and missed out on both. Yes, that does mean that Crowley’s a complete moron.↩

122. They only had a housekeeper because Aziraphale had wondered, once, why there was never any dust and how his plants stayed alive when they were gone. It hadn’t been difficult for Crowley to pick a lie, though he regretted it every time they returned. His plants were getting _lazy_.↩

123. Basically all of this dialogue [from “where do you want to go” to that “oh”] is brought to you by skimmingthesurface with very little interference from me. She's clever and funny and practically perfect in every way. (Oh, please, this whole chapter is perfection, you hardly needed any interference from me <3).↩

124. Usually Crowley gave in. It was hard to resist a pout and blue angel eyes.↩

125. Further, always further back, but Crowley isn’t the only one with a, ah, minor Rome obsession.↩

126. All the time.↩

127. Hell didn't really know what humans got up to. They didn't _understand_ choice or the Free Will they'd all Fallen for jealousy of.↩

128. Aziraphale had told him, the first time Crowley tried to pull him into the water, that he was petrified of drowning. Crowley had thought of the Ark, of feeling an angel disappear from Earth, and had offered to never take Aziraphale near another beach. Of course, Aziraphale had shushed him. He liked to watch Crowley play about, and he didn't mind his toes getting a little wet or sitting under an umbrella with a book. Maybe, as time went, he’d try more.↩

129. It was.↩

130. It was.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at [Syl-Writes-Stuff](https://syl-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/) and my lovely beta at [skimmingmilk](https://skimmingmilk.tumblr.com/).


	14. Private Fears in Public Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A decision is made, a bookshop is re-gifted, and six thousand years pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The chapter song](https://open.spotify.com/track/1XkKYN6tyLAYHjYkjNlbl5?si=T-h8zCHKTnWHaZdmpG3W8g)
> 
> Once again, I am thanking [SkimmingTheSurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface) for being such a wonderful beta.
> 
> Thar be smut ahead. If anyone wants a version with just the dialogue - as they do have a chat amidst their, ah, joining - lmk.

_Love for the beauty of the soul.  
_ _I shall love you always.  
_ _When the flower of life has gone,  
_ _ever I shall find you.  
_ _When all is lost and winter comes,  
_ _I shall be your spring time.  
_ _And memory fades and wilts then,  
_ _I shall always find you....  
_ _I shall always find you...._

― Laurel A. Rockefeller

* * *

**_1992  
_** **_Barcelona, Spain_ **

The world was changing faster than Crowley could ever remember. Technology had sprung forth and began ushering in a new era he'd never experienced. Certainly the angel beside him never had, and Crowley doubted he'd take well to it. He could still picture him, fingerprints left on glass windows of a carriage in 1601 and a pout over the speed of technology. 

How annoyed he was going to get if things kept changing as rapidly as they were. 

How bizarre that Heaven hadn't contacted him yet. 

Crowley stroked a fingertip along the curve of Aziraphale's cheek. He didn't often wake up before him, but his mind was too busy and had been for days. Gorbachev had torn down the wall, the Soviet Union had disbanded, the AIDs crisis had rocked the world,[131] the LA Riots had been... 

Well, they could've used an angel but he and Aziraphale had been home. Crowley hadn't even _known_ about the riots until his Hellish commendation for them had come in. So what was Heaven doing? What were they waiting for? 

Hell's orders had slowed considerably too. No one Upstairs or Down seemed to give a damn about Earth for the first time in its existence and it was a relief. A total relief. 

It was unsettling as anything. Too much was happening for either side to just... stop. Even though their orders never _really_ mattered in the grand scheme of things - humans were both better at being evil than Hell and better at being good than Heaven - but there had always _been_ orders. 

He wondered if it was about time to head back to London for good. He'd planned on waiting until Aziraphale turned twenty-five, the age where he could finally drop having a fucking adviser. He only had to see the woman once a year, but Crowley grumbled over it every single time. It was absolutely ridiculous and all she did every year was ask why Aziraphale didn't have a job. So every year, Crowley would pick him up from the meeting and he'd wring his hands half the drive home before asking if he should seek employment. 

Bunch of bollocks, in Crowley's opinion. Despite Heaven’s lack of input, he had a job. It was half the reason why they were in Barcelona. There were a lot of firsts at these summer Olympics and quite a few of them revolved around politics. Apartheid had kept South Africa out of the games for years, Germany had a new unified team, the former soviet countries were trying to pick up the pieces and compete - there was a lot happening. Even as unaware as he was, Crowley knew several blessings and soft miracles were coating the games this year. He was keeping his demonic tendencies out of them just in case. Heaven wasn't giving orders, but Crowley knew the lay of the land. 

Besides, he just enjoyed Barcelona. It was packed with people and was right on the Mediterranean Sea, so there were plenty of opportunities for mischief outside the arenas and he enjoyed taking his angel to the beach. He was able to go up to his knees in the water without panicking now, and that had only taken eight years. And, after a solid month in the city, Crowley had actually developed the first tan of his entire existence. And, unexpectedly, freckles. 

Thankfully, Aziraphale didn't have questions about tan lines because Crowley's sunglasses and swimsuit would've given him wretched ones. He was more interested in the freckles, Crowley's skin still tingling in spots the angel had seen fit to mark during his exploration. It was... odd, sometimes, that this body could still surprise him. He'd had it as long as he'd existed, but growing into it had been... an experience. He was his actual height again, which was nice, and so was Aziraphale. There were moments where he missed the bigger height difference, the way Aziraphale had once needed to lift up to his toes for a kiss. Nowadays, the lift was relatively minor but Crowley still liked to hold him up and press him close. Aziraphale still smiled when he did. 

It was also odd to have discovered that he could fall _more_ in love with Aziraphale. He hadn't thought it possible, but it never ended. He'd watched him for centuries, interacted with him sporadically, and that had been enough. 

It would never be enough again. He knew what it was like now, to wake up beside him in the mornings. He knew what it was like to hold his hand in a restaurant. He knew what it was like to have that radiant smile, those full laughs, the softer giggles aimed at him every single day. He knew what it was like to argue with him, whether it was playful bickering or something serious. He knew how to come back to him after the more serious arguments and make up with him. He knew what it was like to be chosen, to be told he was loved and to say it back. He simply knew too much now, and distance would never be anything less than torture after this.

Crowley thought he understood why Aziraphale had been so worried over asking to be loved in 1941, why he'd felt selfish for wanting to be together. Because he'd forget again next time, wouldn't he? One day, Aziraphale would lay down on Earth and wake up in Heaven and Crowley would have to pick up the pieces alone. It would be awful. He knew it was going to be awful. 

Yet... Crowley watched Aziraphale's lashes flutter, felt the way he shifted and stretched as he slowly awakened. The pretty blue eyes saw him, and Crowley watched recognition and love and light fill them. 

It was going to be awful, but he wouldn't change a second. Not a single moment. He'd never take back this life and, if Aziraphale wanted, he'd love him through every single one after this. 

“Mm.” Aziraphale yawned, snuggling closer and brushing his lips over his neck. “Good morning, sweet.”

Nevermind. Never again. “Stop that.”

Aziraphale giggled, low and sleepy, and Crowley felt his heart flip-flop in his chest. “Absolutely not.”

“You just woke up. You shouldn't be able to argue.”

“Mm. What a difficult life you lead, tasked with me and arguing.” Aziraphale kissed his neck again, warm breath spilling over his skin with a sigh. “You're up early.”

“Mleh.”

“Thinking hard this morning?” He shifted closer, their bare legs brushing, and Crowley let the intimate sensation tingle up his spine. It didn't always turn sexual, the pair of them as content with simple nearness as they were with more. Well, after Aziraphale’s “eighteenth” year where they'd frankly spent more time in bed than out of it. And even out of it, well... 

“Could be.”

Aziraphale slid a hand through Crowley's hair, humming to himself. It was longer than it had been through the eighties, though Crowley was debating just how long he was going to let it get. Styles were changing as the decade evolved, Nirvana's second album taking the world over. He was still trying to decide if he wanted to go along with the developing grunge or some other cultural phenomena.[132]

“About what?” 

He wasn't going to answer, but the hands in his hair, fingers that had learned him over the last five years, knew how to distract him. Aziraphale's legs shifted against his again, those tingles traveling up. “You,” he admitted, hands finding Aziraphale's waist just as he jerked back. 

“Me? But-” Aziraphale blinked at him. Confused, Crowley blinked back. “My dear, you looked so _pensive_.”

“Ah.”

“Don't say ‘ah’ like that, you-” His protests faded when he found himself on his back, Crowley's lips finding his neck instead. “O-oh. I- While I'm amenable to-” His breath hitched when Crowley’s hand slid over his chest, fingers brushing teasingly over his nipples. 

Satisfied with the reaction, Crowley nibbled at his throat. “Amenable, are you?” 

“Very,” he admitted, but Crowley felt him shift his thighs, pressing them together in the way he did when he was trying to hold back. “I only- It was- It seemed important, though. Very serious for- _oh_.”

Crowley smiled, other hand having found his cock. “It just so happens that I'm very serious about you.”

“Wicked thing,” he admonished breathlessly, but he captured Crowley's wrist to pull his hand away. “Now, please, I'm trying to...”

Crowley squeezed his hand, nuzzling their brows together. He knew the question, understood the worries in his tone. However breathless, his angel could be just as curious as he himself was. “It wasn't anything bad, dove.”

“Promise me?” 

“Promise.” Nothing bad about him specifically. Just a general frustration over a future he'd spend every day fighting and two opposing forces who weren't doing what they'd always done. “I think I want to... go back home.”

“Right now?” 

“After the games.”

Aziraphale smiled, letting go of his wrist to cup his cheek. “I'd love to return to London, darling. It's been some time.”

Crowley nodded, bringing their lips together for a kiss as soft and warm as Aziraphale, his angel sighing into it and falling into pliancy beneath him. His legs relaxed, thighs parting without complaint when Crowley slid his hand down, between his legs and under. “Oh,” he moaned, quiet and low when two digits sank into him with ease. “Crowley...”

“I want to ssstay this time,” he murmured, watching both pleasure and confusion ripple as he added a third finger. It was never hard to open Aziraphale because neither of them expected it to be, particularly not on mornings where he was already loose from the night before. 

“Stay in - oh, _darling_ \- stay in London?” Aziraphale's hand stole into his hair again, the other clinging to a shoulder. A flush crept into his cheeks as his hips began to move, torn between focusing on pleasure or words. “Are you-” Pleasure won, Crowley’s hair getting a sharp tug. “Oh, don't tease.”

“Never.” Lips curving, Crowley withdrew his fingers to get a bottle off the nightstand. 

“Liar,” Aziraphale huffed, a little less indignant than he likely intended with that eager glint in his eyes. Though he seemed to find his words whilst watching Crowley slick himself up. “Are you thinking of settling down, you wily serpent?” 

Crowley tucked a pillow beneath Aziraphale's back, giving him comfort and elevation before lining himself up. “Something like that.”

“What about-” 

Words faded again, only a long moan spilling between them as Crowley pressed into his welcoming heat. It was always perfect. Well. _Perfect_. It could and had been a lot of things so far, but it was never less than right. It was never less than him and Aziraphale, and that was perfect. Even when the right word was _awkward_ when a new position didn't quite gel or when the right word was _funny_ when they said or did something to make the other laugh. Intense sometimes, desperate others. He'd still call them all perfect.[133]

But there was something to be said for this. Sinking into his warmth in the lazy morning, legs wrapped around him, sun peeking through the window sheers, his name a pleasured sigh on Aziraphale's tongue. A hand was lost in his hair, one of his own was at Aziraphale's waist. Their free hands found each other, fingers lacing as Crowley leaned down to taste another sigh. 

“Oh, my sweet,” Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley let him get away with it. There wasn't a hurry to move yet, being linked as intimately as they were something to be cherished in this gentle morning of big decisions. “Your job?” 

“Quitting.”

“So easily?” 

Heaven and Hell weren't chasing them, and he was tired of annoying things like deadlines. The sheen of Aziraphale's enjoyment hadn't faded, though, so, “Yeah.”

He rocked his hips, listened to Aziraphale's soft moan. “Will - _goodness_ \- won't you be bored?” 

“Mm-mm.” He continued to rock, the thrusts slow and shallow, keeping the fire more of a smoulder. “Gonna be busy getting you into your own bookshop.”

Aziraphale gasped beneath him, partially in pleasure but mostly in surprise. “I- _Crowley_.”

Crowley kissed him again, promising and hungry. “I know you want one, dove. I'll help you.”

“Somewhere - _yes_ , there - somewhere close to Mayfair? I adore our flat.” 

_Their_ flat. And when, Crowley wondered, hips moving a little faster and his own mind agreeing very much with _yes, there_ , was the last time he'd thought of it as just his? “Soho.”

“Soho,” Aziraphale agreed, his next gasp all pleasure and his grip - of Crowley's hair and hand - tightening. 

Crowley let his lips wander, words fading into pleased sounds, Aziraphale’s pleasure and praise singing through him the way they always did. The tight clench of muscles around him was as stunning as ever. He muffled his own eager noises in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck so he could better hear his lover’s keening.

“Crowley- Crowley, dearest, you're wonderful, lovely. Oh, the way you move. Just how I like, my sweet. My darling.”

He didn't know why, but the wrecked babbling of praise worked far too well for him. He moved with them, faster or slower, shifting the angle to give him more. The pleasure was far from one-sided, though, and Crowley didn’t know how much more he could take. “Angel,” he warned. 

“Oh-” Aziraphale relinquished the grip of his hand, each of his diving into Crowley’s hair to grip and tug in ways that tingled right down his spine. It didn’t help him hold back, so he quickly slid his hand down Aziraphale’s side and slipped it between them. “O-oh, yes, that- Oh, _Crowley_ , your hands-!” 

Fingers wrapped around his length, slickened by a miracle Aziraphale was too far gone to notice, and Crowley stroked and thrusted and stroked and-

“ _Crowley_!” 

The clamp around him was too much combined with the sight of him, back bowed and expression etched in ecstasy. He plunged deep and let Aziraphale’s body drag out his own release, helpless little jerks from them both all they could do until Crowley collapsed atop him and Aziraphale’s tight grip turned into gentle strokes. One hand slipped down in back to draw meaningless patterns over his skin. 

“Alright, angel?” he murmured, face buried in Aziraphale’s shoulder and lips quirking when soft giggles shook through him. 

“A sight more than that, dear boy. Ti-”

“If you say ‘tickety-boo,’ I’ll-”

The giggles happened again. “I’m positively jolly good.”

Crowley huffed. “You’re absolutely ridiculous, dove.”

“You can say that all you like, but you’re the one who’s in love with me.”

More than he probably should be, more than he’d ever thought possible. More every day. Crowley kissed his shoulder, shifted to his neck, right along his jaw, and-

“Is that really what you were thinking about?”

He stopped, the question keeping him from the kiss he’d been aiming for. “You’re really asking me that?”

“It just seems so... so abrupt. We haven’t discussed my wanting a bookshop in years, Crowley. And, if I recall correctly, it was a very short chat.”

He sighed, nuzzling their brows together. They were still joined, still pressed together, but it didn’t surprise him. Aziraphale’s busy mind rarely shut off for long, even like this. “It was. You called it a pipe dream, and I dropped it. But we’ve seen nearly all the world now, I’m tired of deadlines, and I want to give you a dream. Someplace we can, y’know, settle in. Like you said.”

“Won’t you get bored?” he asked again. This time, Crowley heard the question in the question.

“Of you, dove? Never.”

“Of being a bookseller, then.”

“Oh, I’m not selling anything. That’s on you. I’ll just hang ‘round being... cool.”

He only just managed to not take offense when fresh laughter rang out. “Oh, yes, sweet, very ‘cool’ indeed.”

“Did you just air quote that against my back? You _prat_ ,” he accused, loving him beyond words when he tucked his head beneath Crowley’s chin.

“Well, we’ll discuss a bookshop later. But if you’d like to quit the magazine and stay home for something else, I’ll support that decision.”

Crowley nodded, grunting a bit when Aziraphale lowered his legs. It was time to get their day started for real, and after the games ended...

Settling in London, tucking into their safe place, would be alright. He’d shown Aziraphale the world, and their respective Head Offices didn't seem to give a damn what they were doing. Now was the time to go home.

\----

**_1993  
_** **_Soho, London_ **

Sometimes, his past lives - as Aziraphale had grown accustomed to calling them - stood out more than others. Shelving old, leather-bound books and wondering just how Crowley got his hands on them was certainly one of those times. Having him lounging on a nearby loveseat felt delightfully new, but the rest of it... 

Well, the rest of it was very familiar. 

It was every time Crowley showed up from one of his excursions with a box in tow and, well, Aziraphale was thrilled with them, but... 

“Did you know, dearest, that there are rumours about this shop?” 

He heard him shift on the cushion. “Heard one or two.”

“Mm. Apparently, it's been closed since ‘41. Since the Blitz.” Aziraphale glanced back at him and, in ‘84 he may not have recognized the deliberateness in Crowley's avoidance of his gaze, but he certainly did in ‘93. “Do you know what it was before?” 

Crowley grunted, a noise anyone else may have taken as vague interest, but Aziraphale watched him roll the corner of the fashion magazine page between his thumb and forefinger before he turned the page. Marking it, Aziraphale knew, because he’d stopped reading.

He refrained from giving him a bookmark, saying instead, “It was a bookshop.”

“Ohhh,” Crowley hummed, stretching the little word out.

This idiotic man. Aziraphale ached with love for him. Six months before, he’d brought Aziraphale to Soho and had parked just across the street. Right where the Bentley was even now, in fact. The corner store hadn’t been listed for sale in any paper or through the innumerable realty offices he’d called, yet Crowley had scrounged up the key the very next day because Aziraphale had... Well, he’d _seen_ it. Fine columns, blank stone where he could almost see a name etched into it. He’d seen the front door, and he’d known what to expect inside. He’d been able to smell it - leather and glue and aged papers, dust and wine and Crowley. Curious that he thought of him, though perhaps he was confusing the scent of apple cider that always seemed to cling to his skin with actual cider?

Then again, he’d seen him in his mind’s eye. Three flashes - early regency wear, holding him close, panicked; in a slim suit, holding him close, aching; in a paisley jacket, draped across the very same loveseat he was currently perched on, arm thrown over his eyes, tired. There was a fourth thing, a snake sliding off a bookshelf and- and twisting? Changing somehow, though Aziraphale couldn’t quite... 

Oh, it was harder to think about the snake, and he was sure it was just an effect of hearing so many rumours of the building being a serpentine paradise. Yes. Quite sure. 

In any case, he’d expected crammed bookshelves and antique furnishings when he’d walked in and hadn’t quite gotten it. The furnishings, yes, and Crowley telling him it came like this and that they’d find books to fill the shelves with if this was the place. As if he’d _known_ Aziraphale would agree but was willing to go through the motions of tempting.

Well, he hadn’t been wrong. Aziraphale had been sold before they’d taken a single step inside. But he wasn’t a fool. Crowley had been suspicious from the get-go and he had, once, told Aziraphale he had a book collection.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, darling, how long has this building been in your family?”

Crowley fell. He tumbled right off the loveseat in a tangle of limbs and fluttering magazine pages and meaningless sounds that said so much. “Wot?” he eventually squeezed out.

It would do. “My dear, you were hardly subtle. How long have you owned this place?”

Crowley glared at him, but Aziraphale fluttered his lashes in the way that normally got him what he wanted, and the dramatic darling flopped back in a petulant sprawl. “Papers were signed in 1800.”

“Gosh!” It fit. It fit so well. Aziraphale had to stop himself from fiddling with the first edition Brontë’s weathered cover and instead slipped it onto the shelf. “I don’t suppose... this ancestor had, ah, a partner?”

The long pause that followed that question was one of the reasons Aziraphale rarely brought up these memories or visions or whatever it was they were. Not because Crowley ever told him to stop or said they were odd, no. But he’d get quiet and he’d _think_ carefully about his answer, and Aziraphale knew those answers weren’t lies. They weren’t. Crowley didn’t lie to him,[134] but they were... incomplete responses sometimes. The sort of things that made him think Crowley wanted to tell him so much more, yet couldn’t. Often, he wondered if that went back to the bizarre Bee person they hadn’t spoken of or seen since their one very brief, very upsetting visit.

“Things... didn’t really work out for them then, but yeah.”

Panicked. This Crowley in his visions had seemed so very frightened as he’d left. Aziraphale had to shake away a stab of loneliness. He had this Crowley now, and he couldn’t help but wonder if these past versions had tried very hard to have a relationship of some sort with every crossing of paths. Tried and failed as nothing beyond kissing had ever once kindled a flash of recognition.

“Can I ask you a very... difficult favor?”

“Anything, angel. You know that.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale shelved the last book in the box and turned towards him, hands clasping behind himself. Crowley was still on the floor, but at least he was sitting up now. “You’re very good at running away,” he began, unsure what to make of it when Crowley spasmed in place and didn’t hide the guilt fast enough, “but I think... Well, I know I would appreciate it very much if- Well, if things between us don’t seem to be, ah, working out, I ask that you stay and speak to me instead of fleeing.”

Sometimes, Aziraphale didn’t know how Crowley’s legs worked. Or if the things they did could technically be counted as working. He hauled himself up without any help from his hands and more or less stumbled into him. He could be almost alarmingly fast, but Aziraphale was not and had never been afraid of him. One probably should be wary of someone who could clearly strike like a cobra, but those hands did nothing but cup his cheeks and rather than venom, he spit promises.

“I will _never_ run off from you.” Never again, Aziraphale’s mind supplied in the gap between that and, “You know how I feel about you, dove. If I feel like I need to run, it’ll be with you.”

“Oh, I hope not. I’d rather walk,” he replied lightly, to ease some of the tension in the fingers against his cheeks. 

It worked, a hand stealing into his curls to tip his head back, Aziraphale letting him as easily as he let himself be kissed. As easily as he kissed back, swaying into Crowley and letting his lips, tongue, taste soothe a thousand wounds Aziraphale simply couldn’t explain. It just seemed to him that they were meant, that they’d spent so much time not being together and not being happy that he needed to grab this with both hands and hold tight. It was their time and maybe, finally, they were doing things the right way. His past lives should be so lucky to have had this sort of connection to such a fierce, loving, overly protective darling such as this. 

“My sweet,” he sighed, keeping their lips close even as the kiss broke.

“ _Ngk_.”

Aziraphale ignored the protest as he always did. “Apologize so I may forgive you.”

Sighing gustily, Crowley wound his arms about his waist and nestled his nose in platinum curls. They only seemed to be getting paler and paler as the years went. “Should’ve told you about the place sooner.”

“Not for that.”

Crowley laughed into his hair, and Aziraphale fondly cupped his narrow hips. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the mountain of fucking books.”

“I could do without the poor language, dearest, but thank you. All forgiven if you show me the rest of them.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” should’ve given Aziraphale cause to scold him further, but it only made him wiggle in a happy bid to get closer. That swear could only mean that there were a _lot_ more books. Perhaps he wouldn’t need to start searching for more to fill out the multitude of shelves as he’d assumed. “Tomorrow,” Crowley promised. “They’ll be here.”

“Oh, thank you, sweet.”

“Bnnmmlehhh.”

\----

**_2004  
_** **_Heaven, Hell, & Earth_ **

The day was Thursday. The date was the 21st of October. The time was 9:12 in the morning.

It had been written: _There shall be a world, and it shall last for 6,000 years and end in fire and flame._

Everyone above and below knew of the Great Plan and only two - well, _one_ \- currently knew of it in the middle. All of Heaven held their breath, all of Hell felt a connected sort of embarrassment, and the one being on Earth who knew clung to the second who should but did not know.

At 9:13 in the morning, nothing happened.[135]

At 9:14 in the morning, Archangels began sending out frantic memos, the Dark Council started whispering about _speed dating_ and other desperate measures invented by the demon Crowley,[136] and an Earthly demon continued to cling to an Earthly angel. A bookshop did not open that day or the next.

The Great Plan, however, would not be put off for long.

* * *

* * *

### Footnotes

131. It had taken Freddie Mercury, and Crowley still wasn't sure how he felt about that. How he felt about any of it. Fucking Pestilence. Retired? Bullshit. That horseperson would pop up whenever they felt like it, Pollution be damned. (Alright, well, maybe he did know how he felt about it.)↩

132. Baggy pants were about to become the rage, and Crowley had never killed a fad as fast as he would kill jnco jeans. Bellbottoms had been one thing, but those? Absolutely not. Ripped jeans and black tartan shirts would suffice when, yes, he did finally accept grunge.↩

133. Aziraphale would too, for the record.↩

134. ↩

135. That’s a lie. At 9:13 in the morning, something did, in fact, happen. It seemed inconsequential for everyone but the two beings involved. Isn’t that the way, though, of every love story? Even ones with tragic endings. In any case, that morning a curly-haired woman smiled at a man-shaped being who said his name was Luke but had many others. The earliest of which was Lucifer.↩

136. Crowley had not, in fact, invented speed dating. He’d taken credit for it, though. With much amusement, he’d ended up inventing video dating instead. Much, much funnier.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at [Syl-Writes-Stuff](https://syl-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/) and my lovely beta at [skimmingmilk](https://skimmingmilk.tumblr.com/).


	15. Everyday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyday, it's a-gettin' closer~  
> Goin' faster than a roller coaster~
> 
> Aziraphale's life continues to plug along, but Heaven has some news to share and Crowley has a delivery to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Our chapter song.](https://open.spotify.com/track/39lnzOIUCSNaQmgBHoz7rt?si=lvtYUQRiTaabTWhzdF04-Q) How many of you remember that this is the song Neil originally wanted as the theme for GO? >;3
> 
> [SkimmingTheSurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface) being a fab beta as always.

_He had been reborn into the knowledge of death;  
_ _and the inescapability of change,  
_ _of things-never-the-same,  
_ _of no-way-back,  
_ _made him afraid.  
_ _When you lose the past you're naked in front of contemptuous Azraeel,  
_ _the death-angel.  
_ _Hold on if you can,  
_ _he told himself.  
_ _Cling to yesterdays.  
_ _Leave your nail-marks in the grey slope as you slide._

― Salman Rushdie

* * *

**_2008  
_** **_Soho, London_ **

The years had been good to them. Twenty-three since they'd started living together, twenty-four since they'd found each other at a Queen concert. Crowley had long-since stopped being annoyed at the ruination of his original, flawless six-step plan as this meant he'd known and been able to love Aziraphale more than half of this life. Aziraphale liked celebrating the anniversary of their meeting each year and Crowley liked to let him. 

Dates hadn't really been a _thing_ in Eden, so it was nice to have something mark the occasion. Wrong date or not, it didn't matter. Their “birthdays” were fake, too, but they felt special. Crowley had gotten used to celebrating, to keeping track of the days on a calendar tacked to their bedroom wall. Six thousand years and he'd never had a real appreciation for the passage of time before. They celebrated _holidays_ , which was among the most unique things when he'd seen so many of them rise and fall over the millennia. He and Aziraphale never did anything big or grand, but there were always little ways to mark the occasion. Though Aziraphale thrived around Christmas.

Crowley still, more than twenty years in, couldn't _feel_ the angeldom beside him, but he had finally started to recognize the sheen around Aziraphale’s blessings and miracles. Unconscious and always subtle, Crowley wondered what Heaven thought of them. Who kept tabs on him? Because no one contacted him. Not even now that he was thirty-eight. Thirty-nine now, he recalled, his birthday having passed just a few weeks earlier. Crowley had given him actual, physical tickets to a West End show to surprise him with a night out. Not _on_ his actual birthday because, well, that day had a tradition neither of them wanted to break, but it had been given and received as a birthday gift all the same. 

They’d settled into something of a routine and, more importantly to Crowley, a life together. Sturdy and solid and _more_ than he'd ever imagined possible, and Crowley had a damn good imagination. In ‘04, he'd seen a big step forward on all the political meddling he'd done in the ‘60s. Civil partnerships had become a thing and they had the very human paperwork to prove it.[137]

Plus, the world hadn't ended in ‘04 and he was... Well, sometimes it was still a terrifying thought, but Crowley was _happy_. He had his angel and they were both happy. 

“Here. Don't forget your brick.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale frowned at the small flip phone Crowley had given him months earlier, brow furrowed slightly.[138] “I don't see why you can't just call the bookshop.”

“Customers call the bookshop, angel.”

“Exactly. They can't if I'm on the phone with you.”

Crowley grinned, leaning over and dropping the phone into his coat pocket. He had nearly everything he liked best now, clothes-wise. All the things Crowley had seen him cherish most over his lives. The Victorian era camel-coloured coat had been the latest, the tartan bowtie the first. It wasn't his particular tartan one that day, though the rainbow colours were still patterned as such. Crowley tugged it lopsided. 

“I'll call the bookshop first, then the brick if you don't answer.”

“Oh, fine,” he sighed, primly adjusting his bowtie before opening the passenger door and climbing out. Crowley rose from the driver's seat, gathering him up when he came around the car. “You'll come for lunch?” 

“‘Course. I'll save you from customers.”

“That would be lovely, sweet, thank you.”

The endearment was payback for making him keep the phone, but they both knew any protests were meaningless. He'd gotten used to it and sometimes, only for Aziraphale, Crowley believed it. “Prat.”

Aziraphale laughed through a kiss. “Wily old serpent,” he accused in return and they kissed again. “I'll see you for lunch, darling.”

“Yeah. I hope you don't sell anything.”

“That would make for a lovely day, wouldn't it?” Aziraphale stepped back, giving him a cheerful wave as he stepped off the kerb to cross the street. “I love you, dearest.”

And that still - still, still, _still_ \- made Crowley’s heart twist and swell. Nearly six thousand years of waiting for the words couldn’t possibly let a mere twenty dull their shine. At least they didn't catch in his own throat anymore. “Love you too, angel.” 

He folded his arms atop the Bentley's roof, watching until Aziraphale disappeared inside, and then he slid behind the wheel and sped off far faster than he ever did with Aziraphale beside him. 

His phone rang and Crowley arched a brow, glancing up at the little microphone on his visor. He'd installed it with a snap, an impulse over the curiosities of humans. Explaining it to Aziraphale had been fun. 

“It's a car phone, angel.”

“You have a home telephone and a cellular telephone. Why would you need a third telephone in your vehicle?” 

Roughly the reaction he'd been expecting, actually. “If you call me while I'm driving, I can answer without taking my hands off the wheel. It's safer.”

He'd bitten his lip. “Doesn't sound so bad, I suppose.”

Now, Crowley answered with an arched brow. “Anthony.”

“Crowley,” a voice snarled. “It's Ligur. You alone?”

“Right. Hi.” His good mood was tossed into the backseat and the music made a sound not unlike a record scratch. Traitor. “All alone, yup. How's Hell?” 

“Dark,” he replied, relishing the word. 

“Sounds fantastic. What do you want?” 

“We are all set to recount the deeds of the day.”

“It's barely ten.” Aziraphale had wanted to make French toast from scratch, a wild hair that was absolutely not a ploy to stall opening, Crowley, why would you even suggest such a thing? 

“Not _now_. Tonight,” Ligur explained. “When it's dark.”

“It's always dark in Hell. Isn't that the whole-” 

“We're coming topside.”

“Topside,” Crowley echoed. Something hard and hot settled in the pit of his stomach. 

“In a place near some stupid little town called Tadpole.”

There was rustling over the line and something like a croak. 

“Tadfield,” Ligur corrected. “Be there by sundown. There's a job.”

“A job.”

“We'll tell you where.” The line disconnected and the music started again. That pit did not cool or lessen, instead sliding its way up Crowley's throat to get lodged there when he was suddenly pinned back into his seat with directions and flashes of images being pushed into his mind straight from the radio itself. 

A graveyard, of course, with a little church. He had to pick up and deliver a package. Not hard. Not hard at all. 

When it was finished, he pulled a very illegal U-turn and started heading towards the biggest cellular network in London. He'd been planning on letting this sit a few more days but it'd be better to make some mischief to report on and, “Call Aziraphale.”

“Calling Aziraphale,” the robotic voice replied. 

“Hello,” was the musical little greeting. It should've made him smile, but guilt decided to join the party instead. 

“Hey, angel.”

“Oh, Crowley! You've only just left, dearest.”

“Yeah, listen, I got a call...”

“Oh,” he sighed and Crowley winced. “Taken on an assignment, have you?” His current “job” was photography because he hadn't been able to come up with anything else and, well, it was sort of fun to snap pictures. He had dozens and dozens of Aziraphale, tucked away in a secret album,[139] and he did take on the rare client just to make it more believable. 

“Mnng. Yeah.”

“Are you going to miss lunch?” 

With the way he drove? “No, dove. We'll still have lunch. It's dinner.”

“Oh, but we had sushi plans, Crowley. Do you really have to cancel?” 

“It's in Oxfordshire and they can only meet late tonight. They want stars and whatnot in the background,” he lied. He'd have to stop somewhere and stir up a couple of Golems on the way home. “Sort of a last minute, desperate thing from the sounds of it.”

“Oh... Alright. I suppose we'll discuss it over lunch.”

“Yeah. I'm sorry, angel, really. You know I don't do this.” Not when he could help it. Hell could usually be dealt with without bothering Aziraphale in any way, but every now and again... Ligur and someone coming topside - Hastur, judging by the croak - was a little more worrying than normal. But he'd take their package, deliver it, and the world would continue to spin. There would be other sushi nights. 

“I know you don't, darling. They really needed you?” 

“Begged.”

Aziraphale sighed over the line. “Alright, sweet. Don't be late for lunch.”

“I won't be. Talk to you in a bit, angel.” 

“Alright. We'll have to have an extra long lunch, I think, to make up for you missing dinner.”

It was a forgiveness that let Crowley laugh. “We will.”

“Wonderful. Mind how you go, my dear. Pip-pip.”

“Right. Later.” He pulled up to a kerb after hanging up and climbed out of the Bentley wearing a black coat, the shoulders and wrists a reflective orange. No one would look twice at him.

No one but the rats in the main control room, anyway. He did like being a demon. It could be so much _fun_. 

\----

**_Oxfordshire_ **

The package was a baby, and Crowley was sick. 

The package was a _baby_ , and Crowley was sick. 

The. 

Package. 

Was. 

A. 

Baby. 

He wailed when Crowley jerked the wheel, barely avoiding the enormous lorry careening towards him. Or perhaps he'd careened towards it during the information spilling into his mind. Proud dad, Satan, taking over Freddie's voice and praising his demonic works.

Being called darling by anyone but Aziraphale made his skin crawl, but there was no saying no to Satan. Satan him _self_ , the Dark Lord not nearly as hidden away as Her. But then Hell couldn't function without leadership like Heaven could. Hell would've burned itself out by now, demons slaughtering demons, if not for Satan's occasional reminders of the Great Plan. Reminders of the biggest rule Hell had: don't trust each other, don't be friends with each other, hate each other - just don't permanently kill one another. The numbers had to be strong enough to match Heaven when the end of days arrived. 

The end of days was in eleven years. 

The cause was in his backseat. 

The package was a baby and, speeding towards a nunnery, Crowley was sick. Six thousand years of trying so hard to be good enough for Aziraphale, to protect him, to keep him from Falling, of loving him, and now this? Finally together and now this? He'd asked for _one life_. 

One life and now Crowley was ruining it. Ruining it for them both. For everyone on this bloody planet, in fact. He'd thought everything was fine when nothing had happened in ‘04, but now he knew what Satan had been doing all these years. He knew why Heaven and Hell alike hadn't been in _real_ contact. Who had time to give a shit about Earth when it wasn't going to exist much longer? 

He'd been an _idiot_. 

He didn't ask _why me?_ again but he thought it until the car ride soothed the baby back to sleep again. Then he thought it some more.

The package was a baby, and Crowley was sick. 

\----

**_A Little Restaurant Where They Know You_ **

At lunch, Crowley had encouraged him to still get sushi. Aziraphale wasn't particularly used to eating on his own, but there was an odd sort of familiarity in it. Not exactly _pleasant_ but distantly familiar. He did enjoy going out and about, at least, and smiled when the chef asked after his partner. He absolutely adored little restaurants where they knew him. 

“Oh, Crowley's working tonight, I'm afraid. It'll just be me,” he said in cheerful Japanese. Through their years of travel, Aziraphale had realised he had quite the ear for languages and was usually able to pick them up with a quickness. All except French, unfortunately. He left that to Crowley, and it was not a hardship to listen to his tongue caress the heavy vowels. 

Aziraphale’s Japanese, though, was light and bright and respectful enough to earn him a coveted seat at the bar. And it was at the bar that he took his platter of sushi with a bright, beaming smile and a little bow of thanks for the chef's hard work. Cultural differences were as fascinating to him as the languages, he and Crowley going round and round about all the influences through history. Often, Aziraphale found himself talking about historical figures as if he'd known them personally but he laid that blame at Crowley’s feet. He lived and breathed time, it seemed, and had always spoken of distant figures as if they were his personal friends. 

How nice to think when Crowley seemed to have none besides him. He, of course, only had one. But she, too, had been busy that night and unavailable for sushi. “Oh, I've a meeting with a client, luv. We've already rescheduled him twice and I'm already squeezed into my outfit.”

Aziraphale hummed, pretending not to know that she was a, ah, woman of the night and she pretended that he didn't know in turn. She knew he was gayer than a treeful of monkeys on nitrous oxide and their shared interests lay more in her Thursday activities regardless. They had a standing appointment and the occasional friendly meeting besides. She'd met Crowley, of course, and his darling partner had been thrilled that he'd found a friend. And, well, Crowley got along with her like sushi and soy sauce. 

Which was, to say, marvelously. 

He dipped a dragon roll with carefully handled chopsticks and popped it into his mouth with a pleased hum. Something rippled in the air around him and he automatically looked to his left, expecting Crowley. He always had such _presence_ with all of that fashionable swagger. 

But he wasn't there. Aziraphale sighed to himself and started to turn back around, noticing abruptly that someone was at his right. “Oh! Hello there.”

The man in the soft grey suit smiled, lavender eyes crinkling at the corners, but no cheer reached them. Aziraphale immediately felt so much fury and fear and confusion that it made him sway in his seat. He had to set his chopsticks down. 

The stranger seemed briefly puzzled by the artful array on his plate. “Why do you consume... _that_?” 

“My... My sushi? It's _nice_ ,” he defended, back straightening. “You dip it in soy sauce and the wasabi is wonderful in moderation and-” 

“Well, I suppose it's the human thing to do,” he haughtily interrupted, setting Aziraphale’s teeth on edge. “Sullying the temple of your celestial body should be... expected.”

Aziraphale didn't understand the insult, but he knew it was one. His chin lifted. “Yes, well, if you'll excuse me. I'm attempting to enjoy my dinner.”

More of the pleasant facade faded and Aziraphale found himself reaching into his pocket for his phone. As much as he disliked it, he had to admit the ability to call his partner whenever he liked was a comforting one. He wished he'd had such a luxury while in the group home. As much as he adored and still occasionally peeked at Crowley’s letters, being able to telephone him at any time would've been very pleasant.

“Listen up, sunshine, I'm just here on orders.[140] I'm not even going to bother undoing your wards for this because, frankly, it's better that you stay ignorant.”

Aziraphale glared sharply. “I beg your pardon, you-” 

“War is coming,” he interrupted loftily. The instinctive part of Aziraphale went wild, alarm bells ringing, body tensing in a strong fight-or-flight response. But the other part was terribly confused. There seemed to be no shortage of wars at the moment. There never was. 

Was this well-dressed man an insane person? One of those, ah, doomsday preachers? 

Ignoring the alarm bells, Aziraphale straightened his bowtie and attempted to dismiss him again. “Fascinating information, thank you. Good day.”

Aziraphale turned away, the stranger's eye roll nearly audible. “You're welcome. Enjoy the next eleven years, Aziraphale. They're all you have left.”

Head whipping around, Aziraphale opened his mouth to demand how this person had known his name, and just what he was talking about. Except he was gone. He was gone and, when Aziraphale quickly plugged in his partner's number, he was told the call couldn't be completed as dialed.

Perhaps there wasn't signal in Oxfordshire? He wasn't sure, but he stayed at the restaurant longer than necessary despite the ruination of his appetite and asked someone to walk him to the bus stop. His call to a taxi company had also been unable to go through. 

The bus didn't take him to Mayfair,[141] but it dropped him close enough to the bookshop for him to feel safe scurrying to the door and rushing inside. He locked it behind him, searched top to bottom just in case, and reached for his rotary telephone to try calling Crowley again. Still unable to be completed as dialed, so he drew his curtains and turned on his record player. He'd settle down with a book and some wine and be tip-top in no time. It was clearly just a-

His phone rang and he tripped over his brogues in his haste to answer. “Hello?” 

“Angel.”

“ _Crowley_. Oh, I've been trying to telephone you. It doesn't seem to be working.”

“Uh. Yeah. I'm at a payphone. Cell service seems to be out.”

Aziraphale huffed, though it was nice to hear his voice. “Honestly, and you say this cellular is so important.”

“Oi! You _just_ said you were trying to use it.”

“Of course, when I need it, it fails to connect. I couldn't call a taxi either, I'll have you know. That's why I'm still at the bookshop.”

“You're-” Crowley grumbled unintelligibly for a moment before sighing heavily. “I'm sorry.”

“It's hardly your fault, darling.”[142] Aziraphale only smiled when he made more nonsense sounds. He adored them even more than he did his favourite restaurants. “How did your photographs go?” 

“Poorly.”

The venom in the word stole the smile and made his brows lift. “Crowley-” 

“They...” He inhaled sharply, the way he sometimes did before launching into complaints. But he held them in, quiet in the way he was when they were talking about Aziraphale’s visions of past lives. When Crowley didn’t tell him whole truths.

“Don’t lie to me, darling. Please.” After the absurd meeting with the strange man over sushi, Aziraphale couldn’t take it.

He exhaled shakily. “Angel...”

“Crowley, just tell me what’s happened. I’m hardly breakable.”

“They gave me a...”

“Drugs of some sort?” He gasped. “ _Crowley_ , what sort of people were they?”

Crowley’s laughter spilled over the line, though it was weak and thready. “Baby.”

Aziraphale’s nose wrinkled. “I hope you’re not attempting to bestow a new endearment upon me, my dear. That one’s... hardly acceptable.”

“They gave me a baby,” he snapped, patience clearly worn.

Confusion and only confusion ripped through him. It had to only be confusion that made his legs wobble as he reached helplessly for and sank boneless into a chair. Yes, only confusion. There was absolutely no reason to be utterly terrified by the thought of someone handing Crowley a baby. Babies were harmless.

 _War is coming_.

“They... abandoned their child?”

“Myrggh. Just handed me a baby in a basket. They want me to take it to some convent nearby.”

“A... a convent.” Just like him. Abandoned at a convent with a very cold note pinned to his swaddling blankets. Why would someone ask Crowley to do something like that? 

“Mnn. Gghh. Nnm. Yeah. S’all been arranged. They just... can’t do it themselves.”

“Well... Well.” It wasn’t often that Aziraphale found himself speechless, but this was an entirely new level of bizarre. Strangers who knew his name chatting about war and now Crowley getting handed an _infant_ to deliver to nuns. “And August’s normally so uneventful.”

“Yeah.” Crowley sighed and Aziraphale could all but see him slouching into the side of the phonebooth he’d ended up in. “I just... I don’t know what to do, Aziraphale.”

“Have they already gone?”

“Yup.”

“And there’s no tracking them down?”

“Nope.”

“Well...” Aziraphale fiddled with the telephone cord. “I suppose you had better deliver the baby.”

“Angel-”

“Not _deliver_ deliver, but you understand. You certainly can’t just leave it by the side of the road.”

“There’s a thought,” Crowley muttered, but the lack of humour in it was alarming. He sighed gustily while Aziraphale straightened his back.

“It is _not_. Don’t you dare even think it, Crowley. I am _shocked_ at you. You like children! And a baby, well- An infant is even more innocent than a child. The poor thing hasn’t done a single thing to warrant being left behind by its own family.”

Crowley muttered something Aziraphale couldn’t decipher, but the tone was tired and bitter.[143]

“Dearest, is there something wrong with the child? Or is it the parents?”

“The parents. The baby... I mean, he’s normal looking.”

“Then there’s no trouble at all. This infant isn’t at fault for anything his parents may have done, is he? He hasn’t been able to make a single decision for himself yet. Completely incapable of choice.”

“Choice...”

“Yes. Are you able to hear me alright or has the connection gone down here as well?”

“I heard you, dove.” He sounded better, in Aziraphale’s opinion, more his thoughtful self and not quite so... defeated. “What do you think about... The Book of Revelation?”

“The Apocalypse?” _War is coming._ Aziraphale shivered, rubbing a hand over his face as he tried to get a hold of himself.

“Yeah. Antichrist is born, Four Horsepersons ride, the world goes to shit.”

“I don’t...” Religion was something they talked even less about than Aziraphale’s visions. Crowley knew Aziraphale had a strong, unending faith. Aziraphale knew that Crowley had faith, but called his relationship with God a “disagreement neither of us can forgive the other for.” Aziraphale hadn’t pressed beyond that. It had felt so final, and his instincts had all said to leave it alone.

“I think the book itself is likely riddled with mistakes and far too much grandeur. But the Antichrist is, well... Gosh, it’s getting difficult to think.”

“Stop.”

The sheer _panic_ in the word brought Aziraphale up short, his hand falling from his face. “Excuse me?”

“I- Nevermind. I shouldn’t have asked. I just...”

“Oh, sweet,” Aziraphale sighed, thinking he understood where the very abrupt question had come from. A question in a question. “If I had the Antichrist in my care right now, I would still do right by the baby. They would still be half-human, wouldn’t they? Still perfectly capable of making their own choices, no matter who the father would be. There’s no inherent evil in any infant, Crowley.”

There were several seconds of silence before Crowley huffed. “Right. I’ll... I’ll be home in a couple of hours, then. The convent’s not far out of the way. Pick you up at the bookshop?”

“Yes, please. I’ll just settle in with a record and a good book while I wait, so don’t fret about me one bit. Just mind how you go, dearest.”

“Thanks, angel,” he replied and the call ended.

Aziraphale hung up carefully and reclined in his seat, gazing upwards. There was a second floor, spiralled and narrow, that contained even more books. But it was the decorative compass he let his gaze linger on. The E. The sun, the stars, and the moon all rose in the East. Every day, since the beginning, all things had begun there.

Something in Aziraphale prayed they weren’t approaching the West.

\----

**_Mayfair, London_ **

Neither of them could sleep, and neither of them wanted more intimacy beyond clinging in the dark of their bedroom. They’d painted what had once been only Crowley’s bedroom in ‘93, when they’d come back to England and settled in.[144] They’d known better how to keep cleaner than they had in the late ‘80s, but it had been just as fun. More than, in some ways, because it had been for _them_. They’d brought Aziraphale’s bed into the room as, well, it was more comfortable and was the first place they’d been physically intimate together. Aziraphale was too attached to his things to allow for anything else, and Crowley too fond of souvenirs. Thankfully, no one had told them a mattress should be replaced every seven to ten years. This one, expected as it was to remain comfortable, was like new more than twenty years later.

They both wanted it to last more than eleven more years.

“Spill,” Crowley murmured to the ceiling, half-under Aziraphale as the angel used his shoulder as a pillow.

“What?”

Crowley’s eyes rolled. “What’s wrong?”

“You could’ve started with that,” Aziraphale mumbled into his shoulder. Neither of them were precisely tense, but there was something over their heads. “Nothing at all is wrong with me. You’re the one who took an abandoned baby to a convent tonight. What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s... It’s not how I thought I’d be spending my night, is all. And I feel...”

“Taken advantage of?”

Used, but Crowley supposed it was the same thing. “Yeah. How was sushi?”

“Delicious.”

Crowley waited. When he didn’t ramble about the chef, the decor, the kinds of rolls he’d purchased, whether or not he’d had sake, or even about the flavours, he tipped his head down and tangled a hand in Aziraphale’s curls to get him to look up. “What. Happened.”

Oh, good Lord. He really did know him too well sometimes. Aziraphale would’ve really preferred to forget the whole odd affair. “It was nothing, darling, really.”

“Then you shouldn’t have any problems telling me.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale rolled off him, staring at the wall. It wasn’t a surprise when Crowley rolled over and spooned him, draped an arm over his soft middle and squeezed, so he solidly steeled himself against such maneuvers. “Go to sleep, dear. You’re unmanageable tonight.”

“I’m unmanageable every night,” he pointed out, pressing a kiss to the base of his ear. “Unmanageable and all-knowing.”

“If you were all-knowing, you would _know_ that nothing happened during dinner. I had a lovely time.”

“Until...”

“There is no ‘until.’”

Humming, Crowley shifted to press kisses against the nape of his neck. “Lying to me, angel? You astonish me.”

“I do not, and I am not.” But even he knew he was starting to sound petulant. “It was just... a man.”

“Angel, there are billions of men on this planet.” And he’d seen more than that come and go. They both had. “Of course it's _just_ a man. What did he do?” 

“Nothing. Just... Well... He was rude and made me terribly uncomfortable.” Aziraphale toyed with the edge of the blanket. “Nothing comparable to what you've dealt with tonight.”

“Anything that bothers you matters, dove. How was he rude?” 

Aziraphale sighed quietly, not entirely sure how to best proceed. Crowley was already so very protective, which Aziraphale adored, but he certainly didn't want to cause undue worry. He rolled onto his back, letting Crowley toy with the top button of his pajamas. He was a fidgety thing. “Well, he appeared in a sushi restaurant and promptly questioned me on why I was eating it. Something about... sullying the temple of my body.”

“Prick.”

The immediate defense made Aziraphale giggle. “Oh, sweet, I know how fond you are of my looks. No need to go on defense there. I dismissed him.”

“But...?” 

“Well, he didn't _leave_. He referred to me as ‘sunshine,’ which I did not enjoy. And then he had the audacity to call _me_ ignorant before...” Crowley didn't prompt him this time, but Aziraphale made the mistake of looking into his eyes. He was so much more patient than he seemed on the surface. Cupping his cheek, Aziraphale sighed and let instinct lead. “Gabriel told me that war is coming in eleven years. The baby...?”

Crowley wheezed at the abrupt shift. There was usually more warning before the angel underneath surfaced. Bollocks. “Yeah.”

“And they made _you_ deliver it?”

Crowley briefly bit his lip. “Not _deliver_ deliver, but... yeah?”

Aziraphale brushed his thumb over the little indent his teeth had left behind, hum soft as he went over their conversation over the telephone. He had to skip certain words, feeling the pull of the wards. They were weak, but he wasn't going to risk this. Especially not in the face of impending war. “I was right on the telephone, you know. The infant is innocent. And, well, if there was a way to... be nearer to him, somehow...”

“Influence him towards the light? Not my area, dove. More yours.”

“Yes, yes, but not something I can _do_.” Aziraphale stroked a hand through Crowley's hair, finger wrapping up a lock. The shoulder-length style wasn't terrible by any means. He rather liked the subtle waves, focusing on it and not the topic at hand. 

Crowley started to protest, but Aziraphale laid a finger over his lips. It was too heavy a topic for too much bickering. “You know I can’t.”

“I know. I know that, but they make bad choices, Aziraphale. All the time and without me.”

“And they make good ones, dearest, without me.” Aziraphale cupped his cheek. “Maybe he’ll just... grow up normally without us and then... He won’t want the war?” Neither of them had much hope for that, Aziraphale sighing heavily. “Oh, darling...”

Crowley rolled onto his back, scrubbing his hands over his face. This wasn't the conversation he'd been expecting to have. He hadn't been expecting the angel to surface and... And he hadn't expected Aziraphale to want to avert it without so much as one sarcastic comment. He knew better, but some part of him still expected, at his core, an obedient angel. He couldn't fathom why Aziraphale was still an angel to begin with. 

Though there wasn't an ounce of jealousy in the thought. He'd so much rather be a demon than an angel, but what about Aziraphale? What did he want? Crowley couldn't even _ask_. Right there, talking to him as an angel, and Crowley still felt an ache of missing him. There were so many things that still couldn't be said or shared, and the world was going to _end_ in eleven years.

“This is such _bollocks_. Eleven years isn’t- This is bollocks, Aziraphale. We can’t just roll over and let this happen.” 

“I have no intention of just... rolling over, Crowley, but I still have faith in Her. Her and you,” Aziraphale murmured.

“Fucking fat lot of good _She's_ done.”

Aziraphale took one of his hands, brought it back to his chest. “I'm _here_ , Crowley. She's done enough for now.”

The protest dried up on Crowley’s tongue, other hand falling away from his face so he could look at him. All holier-than-thou despite everything. Still an angel despite everything. 

“What if I have an idea?”

“No.”

“You can’t _say_ no.”

Aziraphale tapped his chest. “ _No_.”

They had no real options. And Aziraphale had _just_ lamented that they couldn’t be nearer to him. But... but what if they could? Somehow or other. “Look, he’s going to grow up into a spoiled twat who expects everything handed to him. That’s the _point_ of leaving him with who he’s being left with. He’ll want to ruin everything, Aziraphale, but we can _do_ something.”

“No. I said no. We cannot- There’s nothing-” He shook his head. “Crowley, I can’t even _think_ everything through properly. How am I supposed to help you thwart this?”

“You’re still _you_. It’s like you said: if we can get closer to him... Maybe we can make him normal. Get jobs at the estate or something.”

“Oh, just listen to yourself. How could we ever-?”

“I don’t _know_.”

“Exactly! You don’t, and neither do I.”

“I could figure it out,” Crowley insisted, grasping at straws. It hadn’t been enough time. Eleven more years was not enough time. “If I can figure it out and we can get access to him...”

“But strictly good or evil influences are no guarantee that-” Aziraphale gasped almost immediately when Crowley winced. The idea of being _evil_ left a sour taste in his mouth, but Aziraphale rolled atop him to cup his cheeks. “Not that either of us are strictly anything, darling. I- it's- They're safe words to use. Safer than-” 

He cringed and Crowley surged up and captured his lips, stole his attention away from thought and reasons and the impending war. He kissed him desperately, using it like a boat used an anchor. _Stay, stay, stay_ \- 

Aziraphale broke it with a gasp, blue eyes the same as ever but without the knowledge. Though he'd staved off discorporation, Crowley’s bandaged heart shattered again. Some nights living like this was easy, routine, a game they were playing. But this night... 

“I'm sorry,” Aziraphale whispered. “I feel like I- Did I say something cruel to you? I feel like I said something I didn't mean.”

“You didn't.” Good and evil. Maybe that's why he hadn't Fallen. They were good and evil. Crowley didn't always believe that, but he was the Fallen one, wasn't he? And his angel still had his halo.

“I did. Don't lie to me.”

He lied every day, every moment they were together. Crowley closed his eyes. “I'm not.”

Some nights living like this was easy. The night the Antichrist was handed off to a chattering, dotty nun who rambled about his toesie-wosies, it was very, very hard. Aziraphale worried about things he didn't have full context for and Crowley... Crowley had an idea. An insane idea that, as the night wore on, began to become a plan. 

Neither slept. 

* * *

* * *

### Footnotes

137. Maybe Crowley had cried a little, but they'd gotten very drunk in celebration and Aziraphale had cried a _lot_.↩

138. He'd very deliberately abandoned the phone on their kitchen table. Damn.↩

139. Aziraphale was not an idiot and knew Crowley took pictures of him. He thought it was charming and wonderfully sweet of him.↩

140. As much as he’d rather not admit it, Gabriel was not the top dog in Heaven. The Metatron had said to alert every angel, so every angel it was. Even ones Gabriel would prefer not to acknowledge.↩

141. It would have, of course, had that been where Aziraphale wanted to go. But he knew the bookshop was the safest place for either of them, and he was anxious for some safety.↩

142\.  About that...↩

143. “Not yet, anyway. Give it a few fucking years.”↩

144. Crowley had, honestly, expected them to just move into the bookshop. But it was so close to Mayfair and, well, Aziraphale still loved their flat. And now that Crowley had more than twenty years of Aziraphale-filled memories, he loved it too. It was their home for now, better or worse.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at [Syl-Writes-Stuff](https://syl-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/) and my lovely beta at [skimmingmilk](https://skimmingmilk.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I had two and a half chapters after this one written that were all scrapped because of Crowley's idea  
> Tags are getting quite the update next week, so stay tuned~


	16. Claire de Lune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has yet another, ah, bright idea. Will it be more successful than his usual ones?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Our chapter song](https://open.spotify.com/track/51uFIYvJrI6MA5gkprDWDC?si=kvCD3SLtQ3ysCGarAxtDug). Don't forget to check out the new playlist!
> 
> Big thank you, as usual, to [SkimmingTheSurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface) for her beta work. This chapter, she graduated to co-writer b/c she helped me with Aziraphale in a very big way.
> 
> Things have changed this week. New tags have been added :D

_We worry about what a child will become tomorrow,  
_ _yet we forget that he is someone today._

— Stacia Tauscher

* * *

The hand off the night before had been easy. It was _nothing_ at all to walk into that blasted nunnery and hold out a basket to a dotty nun. She gasped and cooed over the baby as if it didn't spell the end of the world, the end of everything that mattered. This was their _chance_ , damn it, and it was being taken. This was their chance. 

In eleven years it would be all over. No nunneries, no Bentley, no flat in Mayfair, no more music, no alcohol, no little restaurants where they knew them. 

No more old bookshops. 

Their civil partnership wouldn't be worth the paper it was printed on, assuming they or paper would even survive a war between Heaven and Hell. Crowley would never fight in the war and Aziraphale... He couldn't even imagine what the onset of Armageddon would do to him. Discorporate him immediately, most likely. So Crowley would be alone to try and keep the world in one piece. 

He was already alone in a very distressing sense. Aziraphale didn't know what he'd been saying when he'd told Crowley to take the baby to the nunnery. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, really, when he’d called. When he’d gone and asked for advice. He’d been a complete idiot to even _mention_ Armageddon to him over the phone where he couldn’t be there to distract the angel from, well, _being a fucking angel_.

And then talking to him as an angel had barely helped anything. It had only given him _ideas_ and Aziraphale hadn’t really been able to dissuade him from them. It had sort of been his fault, and Crowley would die on that hill. Strictly good and evil influences, right. Except neither he nor Aziraphale were strictly anything - something Aziraphale had also said. Heaven’s best angel and Hell’s worst demon were, in many ways, thoroughly human. Aziraphale by Heaven’s design and Crowley by necessity. They could raise him to be normal. They could keep an eye on him and make sure everything was okay. Crowley liked kids from a distance. Surely he could like one from up close too.

The Bentley came to an abrupt stop halfway to Tadfield. 

His fingers shifted over the wheel as the very, _very_ bad idea turned over once again, his own temptation reeling him in. “No,” he said to himself instead. “No, we can _not_ do this. This is a terrible mistake. No. Nevermind.”

 _Turn it up a little bit please_.

He looked at the radio, mouth twisting into a scowl. “ _No_.”

_My baby._

“ _Stop._ ”

_My baby does._

Crowley tipped his head back, screwing his eyes shut. “I said no, and I meant it.”

_My baby does._

“Should sell you for scrap.”

 _My baby-_ The CD skipped. _Baby_. It skipped again and again and again, blasting the word “baby” several dozen times before Crowley cracked.

“Fine! Fine, fine, you bloody well win.” Crowley slammed his foot down on the accelerator, tyres screaming as he barrelled back towards St. Beryl’s. He had to get there before they left with the baby or before their actual kid was disposed of. What the Heaven were they even going to do with the extra baby? 

Crowley groaned, wishing he hadn’t thought that. He’d been doing so well not thinking of the extra baby. Certainly not thinking about it as being expendable. Which it was, as far as Hell was concerned. Would Satanic nuns be that evil, though? The one he’d passed the Antichrist to hadn’t seemed anything even remotely close to evil. Excitable, more like. Eager to please. Not afraid of him, at any rate, which was a bit offensive. At least she’d known who he was.

He’d have to avoid them all when he made it back. Just head straight to room three and grab Satan’s child, exchange him back for the human baby, and leave. Head home.

Crowley’s fingers shifted over the wheel again. “Aziraphale’s going to kill me.”

_And another one down, and another one-_

He switched off the radio.

\----

Crowley pulled off to the side of the nunnery walls, the Bentley tucked in the trees, and he only grunted when he stepped out into an even heavier rain. The drops didn’t touch him, though, as the bricks shuffled out of his way to give him an entrance to the side garden. A door was found and he slipped in. He knew he wouldn’t be able to find the baby by any demonic means, the child blocked from both Heavenly and Hellish sense. How that had happened, Crowley had no idea, but that was well beyond his department. It should very well be beyond everyone’s, as far as he was concerned. This was nothing but trouble. 

But it could work, he reminded himself. If both he _and_ Aziraphale had an influence on the baby, he could come out normal. Not even _want_ to destroy the world. It could work, but the only way to have access was to, well...

Aziraphale was going to kill him for this.

The nuns seemed distracted, at least, a gaggle of them chatting about celebrating as soon as the Americans left. 

“Yes. Them and the-”

He ducked into a side hallway, scowling. Everything in the bloody place looked exactly the same, but how many places were there to hide a damn baby?

He very deliberately did not consider the rubbish bin to be an option. There were plenty of rooms to check before he looked outside.[145] As he went through every room, he listened closely for any nuns to mention anything specific about the babies. Eventually, he heard something about a “discreet adoption” for the extra child and his knees went a little weak. Oh, yes, there was going to be a discreet adoption.

Aziraphale was going to kill him.

He still moved forward, slipping into the room and gathering the baby up. “And what do you think you’re doing?” someone snipped.

Crowley straightened and looked over his shoulder, a brow arching. “Taking the extra one.” His grin stretched wide, wider than it ought, and he nudged his glasses down to show off his serpentine eyes. “Unlesss you have sssomething to sssay about it.”

She stepped back, gestured for the open doorway with an excited wiggle. “Does the Dark Lord want something with him? Or is this some nefarious demonic wile?”

“Isn’t everything the Dark Lord wants a nefarious demonic wile?” he asked, knowing the answer was _sort of_.

The nun clearly thought the answer was _yes, of course_ because she tittered and wiggled ample hips. Crowley gave her a barely-there smile before he heard the sirens. “Shit,” he muttered, pulling a basket out of the ether and bundling the sleeping baby into it.

Then he was off, striding down the halls, avoiding being noticed by anyone else thankfully. He should’ve erased the nuns memories, shit, but he couldn’t go back. He watched twin motorcycles, red and blue lights whipped into a frenzy, pull away from the nunnery with a sleek black SUV following behind. He didn’t have time to waste, speeding to the Bentley.[146]

With the basket in the backseat, by choice this time,[147] he sped away from the convent for a second time in two nights and quickly caught up to the American ambassador’s entourage. A glance at a tyre popped it, a thought kept the vehicle gliding to a graceful stop at the side of the road rather than careening dangerously across the slick roads. He quickly slid to the side behind them, the Bentley invisible to them and him just as unnoticeable as he gathered the basket and strode to the SUV. Security piled out, surrounding the wheel to grunt at it as men were wont to do. It gave him a few minutes to open the backseat and snap his fingers before the few remaining humans could say or do a thing about his presence.

The baby was in a carseat. Crowley frowned at it - at _him_ , he reminded himself - and snapped again. The buckles came undone, and it was easy enough to swap the babies again. There. He settled the Antichrist back into his basket, barely wondering why he was swaddled in a blue blanket instead of the red one Crowley was sure he’d been in before. Obviously something the nuns had done. A quick snap swapped their blankets, the one in his basket now swathed in white cloth. He blinked blue eyes up at him and Crowley closed the lid of the basket with a grimace.

Who better, honestly, to raise an Antichrist than an angel and a demon? The angel may have spent the majority of his time absolutely clueless as to his true identity, but the blessings and minor miracles he was able to get away with were evidence enough of what he was. And that innate _goodness_ that went beyond his angelic label was sure to be a helpful tool here. Aziraphale would probably be a good parent, and Crowley was just going to stay out of the way. 

Assuming he lived through the night.

“What’d you name him?” he demanded.

The American ambassador’s wife - Crowley hadn’t been told her name and didn’t particularly care about it now - gave him a glazed-over, dull sort of look and replied in the same tone. “Mother Superior suggested Warlock.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Crowley muttered. “You’d better give him a damn good nickname if you don’t want his arse kicked here to the States you’re so bloody fond of.”

Pressing his lips together, Crowley slammed the door and strode away. His next snap awakened the humans within the car, a little dazed but none the wiser that anything unusual had happened beyond a popped tyre. He didn’t push the baby into the backseat this time, settling the basket on the passenger seat when he settled behind the wheel. He adjusted his fingers over it, the Bentley very kindly spitting out the Queen CD in the slot and accepting the Debussy disc Crowley inserted in its stead. _Claire De Lune_ would hopefully keep both him and the infant calm. Him and the Antichrist.

Aziraphale was going to kill him, first verbally, then emotionally, and then possibly even physically. This was insane. He reached into his jacket, retrieving a pristine white feather from the pocket. He tapped it against his cheek, the soft down tickling the skin in a way he’d become very familiar with since 1941. It would be okay. Hell didn’t know Aziraphale was an angel and they’d never be able to tell that the baby was the Antichrist. No one would be able to blame him for the war not starting in eleven years.

Crowley looked at the basket, heart tight in his chest. He hoped, anyway. 

He returned the feather to his pocket and sped off into the rainy night, the gentle piano soothing the baby far more than it did him.

\----

It was very late when Crowley parked outside of the bookshop, his gaze slipping from the front door to the basket and back again. Oh, bollocks. He looked at the basket again, then gestured limply to the backseat. A bag from a nearby store landed on the seat, filling itself with diapers, formula, and a bottle. Two bottles, he decided after a moment. They’d go to the store for anything else the next day, but this would surely get them through the night.

He wasn’t exactly so positive that Aziraphale would kill him any longer, but he knew he was definitely in for quite the conversation.

Especially when the door opened before he even reached the steps. Aziraphale looked rumpled, as if he’d been sleeping in his favourite armchair. His bowtie was undone and his gaze was on the basket. “Crowley?”

“Inside, dove.”

Aziraphale barely moved out of the way, but Crowley was very careful not to touch him with or let him touch the basket. “Crowley-”

“I’m sorry I was gone so long. Didn’t mean to... Well, things took longer than I thought they would. Y’know. All things considered and all.” He didn’t know what to do with the basket, but heard Aziraphale close and lock the door behind him. And then the crying started. A little snuffle and then a wail.

Aziraphale went very still. “What the _Hell_ are you playing at?”

Fuck. “I couldn’t do it. I know. I _know_ I shouldn’t- This is all- I mean, I know it’s absolutely mad. I’ve gone spare, I know it, but...” He waved a hand helplessly. He didn’t want the world to end. He was a greedy, selfish demon who wanted to squeeze every drop out of this life together. They weren’t supposed to stop in eleven years when it had taken six thousand to get to this point. “I couldn’t leave him, angel. I _tried_ , and I couldn’t.”

“You cannot _possibly_ be inferring what I think you are _implying_.” His voice was low, almost like a hiss between his teeth as his eyes flickered between shades of blue. Crowley knew the dance well enough to know the angel was rippling beneath the human, pushing his way up. “Anthony J. Crowley, please tell me you didn’t do something as ill-conceived as return to that convent…”

The full name made him wince like a child being scolded, which also nearly made him give something of a hysterical laugh. Natural parent, his angel. But he bit that back, focusing on very gently rocking the basket to soothe instead of swinging it wildly like his very unsteady hands and racing mind wanted. “Won’t tell you, then.”

“Crowley!” The holy ire that had been pulsing beneath the corporation’s surface was abruptly replaced with something that had become much more familiar over the past few years spent together. Something more human. Brow creasing with concern - more than likely for his partner’s supposed sanity - Aziraphale floundered where he stood as the cries continued. “This isn’t something to joke about!” 

“Mngh. Well.” If he had to be serious about it, he’d probably discorporate. Still swaying the basket, Crowley waved a hand at the gramophone. “Look, just... Ngk. Just put on Debussy and stop bloody yelling, alright? He was good the whole ride here. Think he likes the piano.”[148]

“You think he-?” Aziraphale was at a loss, a complete utter lack and loss for words which said more than enough on its own. The concern deepened. “Crowley, I know you’ve got a soft spot for children, but this… well, _this_ …” This was still wailing in his basket, only days old still, so Aziraphale fetched the requested record in a stupor and put it on, the sweet notes of the piano winding their way through the shop. “My dear, this isn’t some sort of midlife crisis, is it?”

“ _No._ ”[149] Crowley finally flipped open the basket, apparently distracting the baby from his cries as he quieted and just stared up with his stupid baby eyes and, oh Someone, Crowley realized he didn’t even know how to _hold_ a baby outside of a basket. And he sure as Heaven and Hell couldn’t tell Aziraphale the full truth as to why he’d gone back to get the kid, but he could give _some_ of it. The angel in him could - and probably already did - know the biggest reasons, after all. “Look, it’s... ngk. You got dropped at a convent.” This life. The one which Heaven had clearly known would likely be his last. They’d abandoned him and, no, it wasn’t the same thing but _it was the same thing_. “It’s a shit way to treat a kid, is all.”

Tension coiled around Crowley’s shoulders, tighter and tighter as the silence dragged on. Filled only with soft piano that solely served to soothe the baby. 

Eventually, Aziraphale sighed. “Language, dearest.”

“He can't understand me.”

“Perhaps not, but I can.” 

“Ngk.”[150]

\----

Aziraphale closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath before pouring himself and Crowley a cup of tea. Certainly no alcohol this most peculiar of nights. He'd been _worried_. Not once had his store telephone nor the wretched mobile rung. They hadn't had plans to dine out together, but their standing tradition still meant they'd _be_ together. It would just likely be over a plate of something he'd cooked. 

It did not mean that Crowley drove all the way to Oxfordshire to bring a _baby_ home. That - _this_ \- was ludicrous. As he carried the two mugs to the sofa, he had to bite back... something. He wasn't sure if the sigh was resigned or charmed or frustrated - it was likely all three. The tiny infant, swaddled in a soft white blanket, was still in the basket. It was just on the floor now, gently rocking under nudges of Crowley’s shoe.

He seemed as baffled by what to do with the child as Aziraphale was by its very presence. They'd never discussed children. Crowley had written once that he liked them from a distance or like... Like one enjoyed a pet. They'd never discussed getting a pet together either. An impulsively picked up kitten, however, would've been far easier to deal with than an entire _human_. 

The thing in him - the instinct or the source of his past lives or whatever it was - was burning with a righteous fury. It wanted to be unleashed, wanted to spill vitriol all over Crowley to get to the bottom of this complete and utter _stupidity_. But it also knew that an unleashment would spell disaster. A worse disaster than a baby's presence could ever be. He sat on the couch beside his partner - his stupid, _stupid_ partner - and handed off his tea. 

“We don't have a bassinet.”

Crowley winced. “I know.”

“We don't have baby clothes. We don't have baby monitors. The flat is hardly childproofed. There are open plug sockets and antiques everywhere. We don't have diapers.”

“I got those,” Crowley interjected, smile a little crooked. “Diapers and formula. Bottles.”

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose, forcing himself to take another deep breath. “Alright.”

“And we've got the basket. Y'know. I thought- He can sleep in there tonight, in our room. And we'd get all the rest tomorrow.”

“Crowley, a baby is not an impulse decision. Do you realize that? Tell me you realize that. This is at _minimum_ eighteen years of commitment and _you_ can't even keep a job for five years at a time.”

Eighteen years was a drop in the bucket for them, and he'd had his current infernal job more than six thousand years. “I committed to you after one meeting.” A six thousand year old commitment. Eighteen years sounded easy by comparison. 

Aziraphale sighed deeply, one hand leaving his mug to cup Crowley’s cheek. He tipped into it automatically, the way he always did, the way that made Aziraphale feel like he'd been waiting far longer than seventeen years to be held and treated like he was someone deserving of affectionate attention. It stirred his heart, quieted some of the fury. 

“And I you, sweet, but that's... Well, you didn't kidnap me.”

“Oi,” he protested softly. “I didn't kidnap anybody. I was given this kid fair and square.”

“To take to a convent and leave, which you _did_.”

“It was a missstake.”

“You utterly ridiculous thing. You didn't even discuss this with me beforehand.”

“I tried,” he mumbled miserably, face turning against Aziraphale’s palm and eyes closing. His sunglasses had long since been discarded. 

That broke both fury and Aziraphale’s heart, and the something in him unfurled. Helpless, Aziraphale pressed closer. “I know, darling. I know. Come here.”

Crowley was easy to manipulate, body sliding along the blankets. Aziraphale’s arms wrapped securely around his waist, their lips meeting. A light brush, another, and Aziraphale changed the angle and deepened it. They rarely risked kisses like this, ones when the complete knowledge rippled through them both. The love was always there, always big and ineffable and wonderful, but there was something special in knowing their history stretched well beyond a concert in the 1980s. Even if Aziraphale couldn't think of the specifics.

“Tell me why,” he whispered, thumb rubbing gentle circles beneath a golden eye. 

“I was serious about the convent thing. They dumped you at one. Just tossed you aside like you didn't fucking matter, and now the other side expects me to do the same bloody thing? Bollocks to that. Bollocks to war. Great pustulent _mangled_ bollocks to the Great blasted Plan,” he added with an upward flick of his gaze. 

“Careful,” Aziraphale murmured, wards tightening their grip on him, but he'd fight them as long as he needed to. They were weak, weaker all the time, but there would always be a step too far. 

Crowley sighed, dropping his head to Aziraphale’s shoulder. “We can make him better than he would've been. He was going off with a family of American diplomats. Would've turned into a spoiled brat.” 

“American diplomats,” Aziraphale echoed with distaste. “Really? As if they wanted to turn this entire venture into a cinematographic show you would wish to sell in as many countries as possible.”

“Well...”

That was sort of the point, yes. Aziraphale looked down at the baby, watched how Crowley rocked him even when he himself was being comforted. “This was the idea you had last night?” 

“Mm-nn-uh-muh yeah. We're living like humans. We're basically normal. We can raise him to be normal, too. Not strictly good or evil, just like you said.”

“Oh-!” Aziraphale gasped. “Oh, Crowley, I told you I didn't mean-” 

“I know, dove. It's fine. I know how you meant it.” Crowley lifted a hand to his wrist, turning his head this time to kiss Aziraphale’s palm. “But it's accurate enough. I want at _least_ eighteen years with him. It's more than eleven.” 

“Far more than eleven,” Aziraphale agreed with a soft huff. “Of all the things I expected in my lifetime, being a _parent_ has never been one.”

“Oh, _fuck_ , I didn't even think of that.”

Aziraphale laughed, though not loud enough to disturb the infant and face hidden in Crowley's neck while he shook with amusement. “Oh, my darling, how I love you. _Thought_ clearly had absolutely nothing to do with this.”

Crowley sighed into his hair. “I call dad, then. You have to be the weird one.”

“Oh, of _course_ I have to be.” Aziraphale sighed and pulled back, gently cupping his cheeks and offering a small smile. “Now don't forget the paperwork, dearest. If we're going to adopt a child, it should be done properly.”

“It's in the Bentley.” Though Aziraphale suspected it hadn't been before he'd mentioned it. He kissed him again and let the human part take control, fuzzy mind remembering more of the conversation than it normally would, but nothing had really been said which would make this suspicious. It was just fair to give Crowley clear answers when he could, when it truly mattered. He'd entered into their civil partnership with his whole self as well, so in love with him. 

So very in love with a clever fool. 

Aziraphale stroked his cheeks, hands soon slipping down to take each of his. And then he looked into the basket, shoulders sinking on a slow sigh. “You wily tempter. Frankly, I don't know how you talk me into your insanity.”

“Because I let you talk me into things just as much.”

Aziraphale chuckled, low and soft. “Have you named him without discussing it with me as well?” 

“Bleh. I heard they named him _Warlock_.”

Aziraphale snapped his gaze from the baby to his partner. “I beg your pardon.”

“Yup,” he replied, popping the P. “Would've thought they'd pick some cooler. Like Damian or something.”

“Damian is a name you'd want?” Because, no, they were absolutely not keeping Warlock. It could be his middle name, perhaps, but Aziraphale knew too well how unwelcoming people - particularly children - could be to an unusual name. 

“Well, that's not what I said.”

“ _Well_ , you said it would be ‘cooler.’”

“You're involved here, angel. Cool doesn't have to be part of it.”

“How kind of you to remember my involvement _after_ you bring an infant into our bookshop.” Aziraphale arched a brow, pleased at all the nonsensical noises that drew out of Crowley before he just huffed and glared at him glarefully. “Don’t fret, my dear. I’m sure I’ll be over my full irritation with you eventually. I don’t suppose I’ll ever quite get over the shock, but...”

“I know it was a mad idea, angel.”

“It absolutely was, but... I also understand.”

“Do you?”

Some of it. He could see why the parallels would’ve affected his darling. Aziraphale’s lack of parentage and his very cold abandonment at a convent thirty-nine years earlier weren’t topics they delved into often, the former feeling oddly superfluous and the latter rather painful. Like a betrayal. A betrayal atop several other betrayals he couldn’t put into words. 

It all went back to, he told himself, the ineffability of God’s Plan. It wasn’t for them to understand. It wasn’t for anyone but Her, and all they could do on Earth was live and grow and have faith. Aziraphale had an abundance of faith.

Understanding Crowley was far easier than understanding the Almighty, however, his partner more and more transparent as the years went. Though he tried fiercely not to, there was no one who cared quite so deeply as him. There was no one who saw such darkness in humanity and talked about it so cavalierly, yet loved it as a whole. Something in Aziraphale knew this child’s arrival had a lot to do with darkness as well as with love. Bringing him into their lives hadn’t been an impulsive act in that he had done it without thought, no. Crowley had likely turned this over and over and over again in his mind, picking it apart with a fine-toothed comb.

He’d still neglected a very important bit - telling his own potential co-parent - but would it truly be Crowley if a part of his plan didn’t go a little bit awry? Of course he’d fumble his way through an adoption the same way he fumbled through everything else. So much incredible cleverness, so much fascinating intelligence, such a staggering ability to always miss one single flaw in his own plans. Even ones which seemed to go flawlessly at first usually resulted in something collapsing. Aziraphale supposed he should be glad that not being told and their abysmal lack of baby supplies were the only glaring issues in this one. Easily fixed.

“I think I do, sweet. And, you know, I rather like Damian. Are you aware that Saint Damian is the patron saint of physicians?” There was a link there to the angel Raphael, though Aziraphale didn’t know why that amused him so very much.

Crowley’s lips quirked. “Of course you’d know something like that.”

Aziraphale leaned forward and gently kissed that small smile. Everything was going to be okay. Being parents might even be fun. “We should leave Warlock as his middle name.”

“Damian Warlock?”

“Damian Warlock Crowley-Fell,” Aziraphale corrected. “Hyphenated, I think. Our second names.” 

Crowley gaped at him for a few long seconds, long enough for Aziraphale to giggle at him, and suddenly his mouth was captured in a fierce kiss that lasted and lasted until the baby realized the rhythmic rocking had stopped and made his displeasure known. Poor thing, Aziraphale thought, both for the infant and for Crowley, who immediately began to fret. 

And perhaps the thought was a bit for himself. Now he had two children in his life.

* * *

* * *

### Footnotes

145. He went right back outside and checked the dumpster first, eternally relieved to find no newborns tucked amongst soggy tea bags, biscuit wrappers, and a disturbing number of disposable dental dams.↩

146. In his haste, Crowley completely missed the tiny Morris Minor pulling away from the convent.↩

147. Say it with me: “Aziraphale was going to kill him.”↩

148. What the baby liked was the car. The piano was just a nice side benefit.↩

149. More an end-of-life crisis.↩

150. This whole scene, [skimmingthesurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface) supplied Aziraphale as I was having a crisis with him. All hail. - Syl _#Awww, I was happy to help! And Aziraphale scolding Crowley is everything, lol. Though you did add the ingenious “Language” and “but I can” lines. Peak sass. - Skim._ #If I’m not channeling Bastille Aziraphale, is it really Aziraphale? - Syl↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raising the Antichrist! Right? That's totally what they're doing. :D


	17. What I Never Knew I Always Wanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raising a child is going a little better than expected. Maybe one of Crowley's plans really is going to work. An old one, at least, is coming to fruition and one angel sees an opportunity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Our song](https://open.spotify.com/track/5b0QOGqikWl9VZ3H3uHrUb?si=BiHSklBxRRyFfKAOAUoGqQ) this chapter was suggested by [DarkShadows93](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadows93/pseuds/DarkShadows93), who was also kind enough to look over Damian's dialogue for me.
> 
> And, of course, thank you [SkimmingTheSurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface) for continuing to be the best beta ever. Especially on days where I don't even know what day it is! lol

_In truth a family is what you make it.  
_ _It is made strong, not by number of heads counted at the dinner table,  
_ _but by the rituals you help family members create,  
_ _by the memories you share,  
_ _by the commitment of time,  
_ _caring,  
_ _and love you show to one another,  
_ _and by the hopes for the future you have as individuals and as a unit._

\- Marge Kennedy

* * *

**_2013  
_** **_Mayfair, London_ **

Having a baby was quite the experience, it turned out. Aziraphale knew a smidgen more than Crowley, though his experiences with actual infants had been brief at best. It had been far more recent than Crowley’s last experience with a baby.[151] The angel at least knew how to hold one, teaching Crowley that first full day with Damian how to cradle him, head supported, and it was truly astonishing that they’d leave something so important on Earth when he was still so fragile. It was awful to feel a surge of protectiveness for something that could very well end the world in eleven years.

Which, Crowley supposed, explained why they’d leave him on Earth like this. It was difficult to hate something which needed him. He did try to keep some separation, though, at first. It had utterly baffled Aziraphale, who’d had to point out more than once that keeping him had been entirely Crowley’s idea in the first place. Saying “I’m worried I’ll mess up,” while very true, only went so far with him.

But Crowley had never been very good at avoiding the things he knew were bad for him, an easily tempted tempter. He’d fallen completely in love with an angel who rarely knew he was one and, as days and weeks and months went by, he fell hard for the baby too. When December 1st, Crowley’s false birthday, came and the angel surfaced as he always did, he did so with fidgeting fingers and gaze turned towards the backseat of the Bentley. 

They’d installed a carseat, the baby seated inside it wearing a tiny sweater patterned in Aziraphale’s Heaven’s Dress tartan, equally tiny denims, and bright red shoes. His puffy black coat was on the seat beside him, and he was sound asleep with a stuffed cat clutched in chubby baby fists. The Bentley had taken to playing lullabies when Damian was in the car. Aziraphale and Crowley had already known all the words to them by that point, taking turns rocking and singing him to sleep every night.

They’d very quickly fashioned a nursery in what had once been Aziraphale’s bedroom, the angel quite pleased that his cream and blue colour scheme still sufficed. Many of the shelves - as the former bedroom had been converted into a rarely used office - had been able to stay, though they’d been filled with baby supplies instead of books and antique knick-knacks.

Well, there were _some_ antique knick-knacks because Aziraphale wouldn’t settle for less. Besides, they’d ended up theming the room around his favourite childrens’ books. The walls that weren’t covered in shelves had framed artwork and quotes from A.A. Milne’s work and Crowley had tracked down every single video of the cartoon show and the movies. 

It hadn’t necessarily been _easy_ to so suddenly become parents to a newborn, but Aziraphale had read books and Crowley had scoured the internet and they’d tackled it together with the same energy they’d spent more than twenty years cultivating. By that December, they were as expert as any human parent could claim - meaning they had fucked up multiple times and would continue to do so.

When Aziraphale finally tore his gaze away from the dark-haired baby, he’d been worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. Crowley had reached out, hand immediately captured. “My dear, I... I love him.” 

Crowley had sucked in a sharp breath, squeezing his angel’s hand. Of course there was hesitation here, nerves. An angel wasn’t supposed to love the Antichrist anymore than he was supposed to love a demon, and yet...

Then again, Crowley wasn’t supposed to love an angel. He also wasn’t supposed to love the Antichrist. He was supposed to respect the Antichrist from a safe distance and influence him to follow the darkness inherent in his Satanly DNA. He wasn’t supposed to be taking him to the bloody _zoo_. It wasn’t even something he’d remember and absolutely not something he and Aziraphale normally did, but they’d somehow found themselves bundling the infant up to go on a daytrip. Because... Well, because...

“So do I.”

“Gosh.”

“Yup.”

And it was easier after that, the two of them muffling or stifling their laughter as well as they could to avoid waking him. It was as unexpected as anything else that had happened in their lives, though the most difficult bits were certainly yet to be seen. After all, them loving the baby was no guarantee that the baby would love them in return.

Plus, Crowley still had to answer to Hell.

Could the baby levitate things yet? You bet. 

Had the toddler killed anything yet? Bit too small yet, but the bloodlust was there.

What was the child like? Just like his dad.

In reality, neither he nor Aziraphale had ever seen him levitating anything. Every time Crowley rocked and held the boy, he couldn’t sense anything evil about him at all. Which, y’know, he wasn’t supposed to be able to. He had some sort of automatic defense... thingy that made him undetectable. 

Crowley had shifted into a snake once, just to see what the child would do two years in, and he’d only gasped and clapped. From having animals all over his bedroom, no doubt. As another test, Crowley had miracled up two gifts - a knife and a toy - and the toddler had picked up the plush without a second thought. No bloodlust there.

He was not, from what Crowley had seen, like his dad. Actual Satanic dad. Not... Well, not him. 

So maybe it _was_ working? Damian was, perhaps, a little _too_ normal, but what else should he be? He was growing up human. It was perfect. It was world-saving. It was... It was a little fun.

By the time he was four, Damian had graduated from a crib to an actual bed. It had rails only because Crowley was overprotective. The bloody Antichrist wasn’t going to roll out of bed and hurt himself in the middle of the night, but it had become impossible to think of Damian that way.

The Antichrist was supposed to be a bundle of evil impulses simmering under the surface, but Damian liked to watch Winnie the Pooh and was scared of Heffalumps and Woozles and sometimes slept in between him and Aziraphale when he had a nightmare. They were nearly halfway to the end of the world, and Crowley’s mind was on which primary school he should go to and the benefits between state and independent schools. His mind was on convincing Damian to eat something besides chicken nuggets, _please_ , and on being grateful that Adam and Eve had been created as adults. He couldn’t fathom how hard it would’ve been to get Eve to eat an apple if she’d been five and displeased by any hint of fruits and veggies.

Apple _sauce_ , he could work with. Actual apples? Absolutely not, unless they were cut up just so by Aziraphale and came with peanut butter. Everything, it seemed, was better with peanut butter. They had three jars in a cabinet and none of them were going to expire. Miracles not required.

“We can’t just send him off to school with a lunchbox of chicken nuggets and peanut butter apples,” Crowley muttered, picking up the scattered array of stuffed animals.

Aziraphale smiled, draping a blanket over the boy sound asleep on the floor. The harsh concrete was cushioned by a plush rug, the active little boy a magnet for trouble and neither angel nor demon comfortable with the idea of him getting hurt. He tucked a little stuffed cat that should’ve frayed long before then in with him. On the television, Dumbo was having dreams of pink elephants, and Crowley wasn’t entirely sure if they shouldn’t put this movie away until he was older. “No, but he took three bites of his sandwich today. It’s progress.”

“I’m telling you, next time try peanut butter and banana. I saw it on _Blue’s Clues_.”[152]

“Ah, yes, the height of culinary wisdom.”

Crowley glared at him, the effect rather spectacularly ruined by the small army of plushes in his grasp. “Fruit and peanut butter is a winning combination with him and you know it.”

Shaking his head, Aziraphale rose to lighten Crowley’s armful. “My dear, what on Earth do you think jam is?”

“ _Slimy_.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Well.” He was a demon, after all, and he was _right_. “I’ll try it on him if you won’t.”

“No, no. You know he’ll complain about the way you cut the crusts if he knows it’s from you.” Which was nothing short of insulting. He was the original tempter. This really should’ve been a walk in the park. “We’ll try at dinner,” Aziraphale promised, bobbing up for a light peck.

“Alright, alright.” Crowley bumped their hips together as they went down the hall to return Damian’s soft toys to their spots on his shelves. “Can you take him to the bookshop tomorrow? Just for the morning, I think. I’ve got a meeting.”

“Of course. He’s a very good distraction for potential customers.”

Which really just meant that when some of the more stubborn ones tried to argue with Aziraphale, he’d arch a brow and mention his son’s presence and how such an attitude would not be tolerated near him. _Or_ it meant that Aziraphale would keep himself occupied entertaining the boy and completely ignore anyone who may want to attempt to make a purchase.

Smiling, Crowley cupped his hips and pulled him in. “Using our kid, dove?”

“Obviously.” Pale lashes fluttered whilst Crowley laughed.

\----

**_Soho, London_ **

The next morning, a miracle happened[153] and Crowley missed it. Aziraphale didn’t. He stepped into his preferred café an hour after Crowley dropped him and Damian off at the bookshop, settling in line for his tea, a tiny chocolate milk, and whatever pastries looked best when he made it closer to the case. He hoped the lemon cake was available. It was always scrummy, and Damian didn’t normally try to steal it from him.

After making sure a little hand was on his coat and would remain there, Aziraphale picked up a newspaper out of habit. While the news was often morose, he liked to skim the pages and keep abreast of the world. That morning’s headline, though, stopped him in his tracks.

**_Same-sex marriage becomes law in England and Wales_**

He nearly choked on air, staring at the headline and letting several people go ahead of him as he read every single word of the article twice before the tugging on his coat registered.

“Papa?”

“Oh-” Aziraphale closed the paper to take that little hand in his, smile nearly blinding in its brightness. They could get married.

They could get _married_. He and Crowley. Convert their civil partnership into _marriage_.

Oh, the first ceremony wasn’t going to be able to happen until the following year, but the fact that it was going to be allowed _at all_ was... Well, it was everything Aziraphale had been dreaming about since he’d been fifteen and a young ruffian with dark red hair and ripped jeans had sat next to him on the outskirts of a concert. Longer, he thought, if his memories were to be believed. Thousands of years, even.

“There’s been a change of plans, duck. Do you want to ride in a taxicab?”

Damian blinked his dark eyes, confused, but the smile and a gentle squeeze of his hand reassured him. “‘Kay.”

“Oh, good. Come along. We’ll have a treat soon enough, I promise.” She’d never let him down yet. 

He ushered Damian out and paused on the kerb with the boy tucked in front of him and the newspaper tucked under his arm. He fumbled with his phone and hailed a taxicab with his free hand. 

“Hello,” a woman answered, voice a low purr.

“Tracy!” Aziraphale cheerfully greeted, Damian looking up with an excited gasp. “It’s me, Aziraphale.”

The low purr vanished in a delighted gasp. “Oh, Mr. Aziraphale! How are you, luv?”

“Wonderful. Truly wonderful. Are you available for a chat? Crowley’s at a meeting and I need someone to, ah, _plot_ with.”

“A plot, is it? What sort of plot?”

“Oh, a- One moment, my dear lady. I need to get Damian situated.” Aziraphale beamed and slipped into the taxicab, rattling off Tracy’s address and buckling his son in before returning the phone to his ear. It was the same flip phone he'd had since 2008, and he saw no reason to upgrade. “Have you seen the newspaper today?” 

“Oh, no. You know Mr. S always nicks them.”

Aziraphale hummed disapprovingly, but Tracy only giggled with glee. “You always _let_ him.”

“I don't need it, dear. You know that. He's got his witches to hunt.” Aziraphale clucked his tongue, giving her his rather neat opinion on _that_ , and she laughed again. “You and Damian come on in when you get here, Aziraphale. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

“That’s hardly safe.”

“Oh, but I’ve got a brave sergeant across the hall and you on your way. I think I’ll be alright.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “In any case, I’ll be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

“I’ll put the kettle on, dear. You two have breakfast yet?”

“Well...” Yes, at home, but he hadn’t had his snack with tea.

“I’ll get out the crumpets and scones too, luv. See you soon.”

And this, he thought with a giddy wiggle that Damian carefully mimicked, was why they were friends. “Very soon, Madame.”

\----

The door to their building opened for him as it always did, and he made his way up the stairs with the newspaper neatly folded in his hands, Damian balanced on one hip, and his heart still hammering in excitement. The headline was on the inside so she could see it with a dramatic little reveal. 

But he stopped short at the top of the stairs when he saw Tracy's rather unpleasant neighbor. A supposed witchfinder. Aziraphale gave him a small, polite smile, receiving a grunt of acknowledgement. Neither moved, and Aziraphale noticed him trying to hide a plate behind his back. 

Ah. Tracy did say she'd taken to feeding the man. “Wearing him down,” she'd so cheerfully explained. Wearing him down for what and why was a bit beyond Aziraphale. Surely such a free spirit like her couldn't possibly settle with a man so stubbornly set in his ways. It would take a miracle. 

The silence couldn’t live for long, though, the four year old oblivious to any tension. “Hi!”

His lips twisted and Aziraphale bit back a sigh. “Hello, sergeant. How are you this morning?” 

He grumbled something, backing towards his door. Tracy's swung open. “Oh, I thought that was you, Mr. Aziraphale! So nice to see you and little Damian out and about. And Mr. Shadwell!” He didn't, to Aziraphale’s shock, correct her into calling him sergeant as he seemed to do with everyone else. Well then. “Do you have the plate from last night? I'll need it for later.”

“Ye won' need a damned thing, Jezebel. Ye scarlet woman,” he spat, more like a startled cat than a true insult. He thrust the plate at her. “Cannae tolerate all yer attempts to fatten me up. I ken what yer up to, Jezebel, and I won' be caught unawares.”

“Of course not,” she agreed with a smile and he disappeared back into his flat. 

He opened the door and glared at Aziraphale. “Good morning.” _Slam_. 

Aziraphale blinked. “Well.”

“Well,” Damian echoed, and Aziraphale had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from chuckling.

“He's softening up nicely, I think.”

“I should think so. He didn't call me any peculiar names today.”

Tracy beamed. “No, he didn't. Come on in, luv. I've got tea and snacks all ready for you.”

“Would you believe that's the second best thing I've heard today?” Aziraphale wondered, but the boy wasn’t willing to let the adults talk without putting in his own two cents.

“Snacks, Ms. Potts!”

“Oh, you hear the same words your papa does, don’t you?” Tracy chuckled, taking Damian when he reached for her and giving him a fond squeeze. She’d never had one of her own and hadn’t expected Aziraphale to either, but she’d been absolutely thrilled when she’d discovered the adoption four years earlier and was always willing to shuffle her schedule around to babysit.

Aziraphale followed her inside, stepping down into her flat and setting a bag with amusements for Damian on one of the chairs in her dining room. He was pleased that she'd turned some of her artwork around so it looked more like it did during her séances. 

It was still brightly painted and decorated as if someone wasn't quite convinced that the sixties and seventies had ended. Aziraphale could appreciate a yearning for bygone days, however much it clashed with his own style, so counted it as something they had in common. She also reminded him - vibrant and chatty and a mischievous liar - of Crowley. It was another solid point in her favour.

Today's wig was blonde and streaked mint green, curling down her back, and Aziraphale found it charming. Too much, yes, but charming. The curls flounced as she poured steaming water into a mug, her fine china flower-patterned and a gift from her grandmother. She saved it for his visits and, apparently, for Shadwell. That careful kindness also very much reminded him of Crowley. “Any sugars today, dear?” 

“No, but thank you. I'll take it black today.” He did most days, enjoying the simple taste of the leaves and spices. Crowley - at home with only Aziraphale to see - took it with enough sugars to give a lesser man diabetes.

“How about you, little one? Are you big enough for tea today?”

“No.” A sharp look from Aziraphale had him wiggling in his seat. “No, thank you.”

“Well, I think I have some chocolate milk for you.”

“Yeah! Please,” he tacked on, legs swinging when Aziraphale ruffled his hair.

“Now, Tracy, shall I show you the headline?” Because he simply couldn't wait a moment longer. 

Tracy sat down a small cup of chocolate milk and Aziraphale’s mug of tea, an indulgent smile on her face as she sat across from him and stirred two sugars into her own steeping tea. “Go on, then. I need to see what's got you so excited.”

Beaming, eyes Crowley’s favourite shade of bright blue, he unfurled the newspaper with great aplomb. “Ta-da!” 

Kindly, Tracy smiled. “Upside-down, luv.” Pink-cheeked, he quickly whirled it around and watched her eyes rove across the headline. Then, bless her, she gasped and clapped her hands together. “Oh, Aziraphale!” 

“Yes! It's to begin next year.”

Damian tipped his head to the side, trying to see. His reading wasn’t the best, but flash cards and little golden books had made up quite a bit of his life so far thanks to Aziraphale and, begrudgingly, Crowley. His husband may not have been as voracious a reader as he himself was, but Aziraphale was pleased that he was willing to help their son learn his letters. “What is it, papa?”

“A surprise for dad.” Aziraphale slid the paper over to Tracy and plucked up a scone, easily distracting Damian with clotted cream and strawberry jam. He was a terrible little secret-keeper, particularly when it was something to keep from Crowley.

“Keeping it a surprise, are we?”

“Oh, I believe so. He’s taken control of nearly every other aspect of our relationship.” Child very much included, though it was difficult to be too cross with him. Not now that the boy had become such a vital part of their lives. “I’ll have to be quick enough to manage this. Ah. Do you think you could...?”

“Watch Damian tonight?”

“Oh.” He beamed, sounding for all the world as if he was pleasantly surprised that she’d make the offer. “Would you? I’m to meet Crowley for lunch, but his meetings can be so unpredictable.” He’d quite given up on keeping up with them. “I won’t know when he’s finished until he calls me, assuming he doesn’t pop straight into the bookshop. Gosh, he’ll likely be worried if he does that and doesn’t find us there.”

“That does sound like him. He’s quite the overprotective sort, isn’t he?”

Aziraphale’s smile softened as he buttered a crumpet for himself. “Oh, yes.”

Tracy nodded. “Alright. I’ve still got a set of his pyjamas around and a set of clothes for tomorrow. You just leave him with me, luv, so long as you promise to bring that man of yours ‘round tomorrow so I can get a peek at the ring. You’re giving him one, aren’t you?”

He hadn’t fully settled on whether or not he should, still riding high on simply knowing this was finally an option for them, but there was some pleasure in the idea. Bringing Crowley over to show off the engagement ring, a little sign to let all the world know they were together. The instinctive part of him squirmed a little, wondered if it was safe, but he could trust even Crowley not to be _that_ reckless. 

“I'll need to look, obviously.” Aziraphale smiled, took a sip of his tea. “I wonder if they make black engagement rings.”

Tracy laughed. “You'll just have to find out.”

“So I will.” Ideas buzzed about in his mind - where should he ask? At the Kew? St. James’s park? Lunch at the Ritz? No, scratch that last one. He would appreciate being asked over a meal, but Crowley had different tastes. Pun rather amusedly intended. Perhaps-

“Papa, awe we not going to the bookshop?”

Aziraphale blinked, reining himself in. Parent first, partner as soon as the child was settled. “No, not today. Your dad and I are going to have an adult day. Very dull, I assure you.” Dull for a small child, anyway. Excitement was prickling over Aziraphale’s skin like a live wire.

“Oh.” He started to suck on his jam-covered fingers, but Aziraphale quickly took a wet-wipe over the sticky digits.[154] “Is it ‘cause o’ what the papew said?”

“Mmhm. And I think Ms. Potts will tell you all about it later, duck.”

She winked. “‘Course I will. We’re going to have ourselves a fine day.”

“I’ve got one of his colouring books in the bag,” Aziraphale assured her. “And two new books. He doesn’t have these ones memorized.” Yet. He and Crowley had learned to rotate his books or he’d just recite the tales from memory. “Oh, and Stripes, of course.” Damian didn’t go far without his stuffed cat.

“Well and truly prepared, aren’t you?”

“One never knows what to expect with a child about.” Or with Crowley after one of his meetings. They either left him stressed and too quiet for too long or smugly bursting with energy; rarely was there an in-between, but he always put on a good show for Damian.

Oh, Aziraphale hoped he wasn’t stressed too badly. That could put a damper on proposal plans. Or, he hoped, said plans could make Crowley’s wretched day better. He would just have to wait and see.

Perhaps they could do something over wine, but he couldn’t make reservations anywhere without knowing when Crowley would be back. He did like the Chelsea Physic Gardens, though, which wouldn’t require any sort of reservation. Just a stroll through some lush greenery and a bottle of wine from the garden’s café. It was perfect, and he could propose in one of the fields or along the path.

Smile warm, excitement nearly palpable, Aziraphale soon got Damian settled with a colouring book and crayons which never seemed to break or get any smaller. He brushed back his fringe, pressing a kiss to his brow even when it scrunched. “Papa,” he complained.

“None of that now. Love is nothing to be embarrassed or fussy over. Tracy, you’ll call if anything comes up, won’t you?”

“Yes, yes. It’s not my first time watching him, luv. He’s in good hands.”

“Oh, I know.” He did, really, he just felt guilty. It wasn’t as if they sent Damian off often, the boy slotting himself into their lives rather neatly. After four years, neither he nor Crowley could imagine not having him. Well, five. His birthday was in less than a month, after all, something he and Crowley would also have to discuss.

Later, though. Much later. He had a very important question to ask first.

* * *

* * *

### Footnotes

151. The last time Crowley had been handed a baby, he and tiny Moses had stared at one another for several seconds longer than necessary before the baby had wailed and that had been the end of that.↩

152. Crowley wasn’t entirely sure about the show, being that it had quite cheerful and relatable dogs. He was tempted to get some fierce beast named Rover to terrify the boy, but Aziraphale would never allow it and, well, Crowley didn’t _want_ to scare him.↩

153. Not strictly a _blessed_ miracle, considering the demonic source of all the meddling. But it certainly impacted people positively. If asked, Crowley would call the angry reaction of bigots the real demonic benefit.↩

154. It hadn’t been on the table before he’d picked it up, something Tracy didn’t notice. Damian certainly noticed, but he had a running tally on all the magic things his papa did. And his dad, for that matter. He assumed it was all normal, so hadn’t yet brought it to their attention.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at [Syl-Writes-Stuff](https://syl-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/) and my lovely beta at [skimmingmilk](https://skimmingmilk.tumblr.com/). [DarkShadows93](https://darkshadows93.tumblr.com/) too :D


	18. I'll See Your Heart & I'll Raise You Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An angel capitalizes on a demon's meddling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Our chapter song](https://open.spotify.com/track/6pErquyCnSFLUnzkP7U6wy?si=Z0uMNfJST1mtqZDjdyDg6A) 💖
> 
> Big thank you, as usual, to [SkimmingTheSurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface) for her beta work. And for tolerating my questions over whether or not this chapter is Too Sappy.

_Love is the most powerful force in the universe,  
_ _and for two beings,  
_ _who love each other,  
_ _separation is only temporary.  
_ _By the Laws of Attraction,  
_ _they will inevitably be drawn back together,  
_ _like magnets._

― Helene Minto

* * *

**_2013  
_ ** **_Hell_ **

The room loosely amounted to a conference room, but it was dark and dingy and cramped. Tables and desks were jammed into the space, stacks of damp, crinkled papers reaching towards the ceiling. Only one fluorescent light buzzed overhead, and it flickered dangerously. Or was it ominously? Crowley assumed it was likely intended to be _ominous_ flickering. What it _was_ , however, amounted to annoying. It made it difficult to keep a proper eye on everyone, which was never pleasant. Not that he wanted to look at any of the denizens of Hell, exactly, but it was certainly safer to keep an eye on them. Once boredom and impatience kicked in, violence was only a step or two behind.

Hastur, Ligur, and several other dukes surrounded him, very few seated on any of the broken and dented metal desk chairs. Some were leaned against the wall next to posters. One read _You DON’T matter_ in a font Crowley would’ve called bland. It was right up Hell’s alley, at any rate. Motivation wasn’t really their gig. He thought of the posters at the library they took Damian to on occasion, their colours bright and cheerful and covered in animals or cartoon characters. Aziraphale liked to read with him under the Winnie the Pooh poster. He liked teaching him how to read, how and why to enjoy books. 

Nobody in this room appreciated a good book. Nobody in this room appreciated much of anything. 

Crowley dipped his fingers into the pockets of his denims, coming off carefree and careless. He didn't bother trying to make small talk with the dukes, the droning grumbles and occasional wail of demons in the halls beyond loud enough. It was cramped, damp, and tight. If he had to wait too much longer-

“Tell uz about the _boy_ , Warlock,” was bellowed suddenly, the light buzz in their voice seconded only by the buzzing of flies about their head. 

“He's a _remarkable_ child, Lord Beelzebub.” He could count to ten, knew his alphabet, and had a wicked little habit of memorizing his favourite books and pretending to read them. 

“But is he evil?” Hastur demanded, spreading his hands. The frog atop his head looked bored by the whole thing. 

“ _Fantastically_ evil,” Crowley assured them, wondering how soon before he could go back home. Maybe he'd pick Damian up from the bookshop, take him and Aziraphale for ice cream. They both liked their ice cream. 

Ligur stepped closer, his chameleon and his eyes a burnt red colour. “Killed anyone yet?” he demanded, close enough for Crowley to smell the mildew odor of his breath. Right, he should probably pay attention to this meeting. 

“Ahhh... Not yet. But there's more to evil than just killing people, eh?” he asked, turning away from the stench to address the other gathered demons. There wasn't much in the way of agreement, but there were rumbles. 

“I suppose. But it's _fun_ ,” Ligur replied, a surprising statement only because demons didn't tend to admit that anything was fun. 

Beelzebub took control back. “Have you encountered any problemz from the... oppozition?” 

“They don't suspect a _thing_.” Crowley grinned, unable to help it. He hadn't encountered any problems from his partner. They were doing a pretty good job, he hoped. Better than what Hell would want and worse than what Heaven might want, though their interests in all of this beyond Crowley. Of course they likely wanted the war, same as Hell, but how far were they planning to go to ensure it?

Not far enough to lessen Aziraphale’s bindings, apparently. 

On his way back out of Hell, he cast a quick glance towards the escalator. A glance upwards was too much of a habit to break, even when he knew his angel was at his bookshop. Nice and safe. For a few more years, anyway. Hopefully more than six. 

Sighing, Crowley sauntered out the door and walked the block he felt comfortable parking on, soon slipping behind the Bentley's wheel. “Call Aziraphale.”

“Calling. Aziraphale.”

“Hello, my dear!” followed three rings, Crowley’s lips twitching as he imagined the little wiggle that had likely accompanied the greeting.[155] “Your meeting is over, I presume.”

“Yeah. Not too bad today, actually.” No one had attacked anyone, and no one had actually touched him. He still felt greasy, but that was just the effect of a visit to Hell. “It's been worse.”

“Mm. You sound pleased enough. They like your work, then?” 

They liked what he said, at least. Little ridiculous for demons to be this trusting of another demon, but they all knew so little about Earth, they didn't have the right frame of reference. Besides, they all thought Crowley was all for Armageddon. Just like them. 

If they knew the truth, they would've discorporated him before he'd reached the escalators. Of course he sounded pleased. 

“Yup,” he replied, popping the P. “How’s your day been, angel? Sell any books today?” 

“Not a single one. I, ah, I'm not actually at the bookshop.”

Crowley gripped the steering wheel. “Why not?” 

“Don't sound so tense, darling. I got- Well, Damian and I went to see Tracy.”

“Why?”

“For tea and scones. And to have a bit of a chat.”

It wasn’t as if he wasn’t allowed to do so. It wasn’t even as if this was the first time he had. Crowley _liked_ Tracy. The woman did what she had to do to live in London and she enjoyed herself, kept to her own rules, and he had no doubt she found her life a little enriched every time she had Aziraphale over. She was also wonderful with Damian, helpful from the first day they’d had him. As flabbergasted as Aziraphale that Crowley would just pick up a baby - because, no, he had not been spared the humiliation of having his well thought out plan described as reckless impulse - but supportive, nonetheless. She’d become something of a godmother to him.

But Aziraphale didn’t usually go see her on the days he had meetings in Hell. Crowley liked to know they were at the bookshop, right where Crowley could swoop in and pick them up if something went pear-shaped. Not something he could readily explain to Aziraphale, though. Not without looking like some overly controlling twat.

“You still there?”

“Oh. Ah, no. I’m-” He paused. “Outside.”

Crowley’s brows lifted. He and Aziraphale both knew he was a wretched liar. They also both knew his evasive tactics and the ways he would state very simple truths and omit things in order to avoid outright lying. “Outside where?”

“London,” he replied smartly, Crowley easily envisioning the arched brows on Aziraphale’s end. The tilt of his head that said “I know you know I'm keeping secrets, but I will not tell you what’s happening.”

It was just as strong in his tone, really. Crowley felt his lips quirk despite himself, but really just wanted to know where his family was after a meeting in Hell. “What street are you on?”

“I’m on a sidewalk.”

“ _Angel_.”

Aziraphale giggled, the cheerful sound warring with Crowley’s nerves. “Damian is with Tracy and, since you’ve finished at a decent time, you’re going to meet me at the Chelsea Physic Garden.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. I’m hailing a taxicab now, in fact. I’m sure you’ll beat me there.”

“Dunno. Taxi drivers are worse than I am.”

“No one’s worse behind a wheel than you, sweet. One moment, please.” Crowley could hear a car door close, Aziraphale’s polite greeting to the driver, and a request to be taken to the gardens. “I’ll be there in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. I just need to telephone their café.”

“Right.” They may not have been at the bookshop, but at least Damian was safe with Tracy and he’d be seeing his angel soon. For an unexpected date, of all things. It was only a little after noon and it had been a bit since they’d been able to have lunch somewhere together. Another benefit, Crowley hoped, to Damian going to school soon. “I’ll meet you at the entrance, dove. See you soon.”

“Very soon! Mind how you go.”

\----

**_Chelsea Physic Garden_ **

The garden was lovely. That was hardly a revelation, really, the two of them having visited several times before. They’d even brought Damian on occasion, holding tiny hands between them when his legs had still been unsteady and now when they were steady enough to carry him right into trouble. Each time they did, Aziraphale tended to look towards Crowley with an arched brow and a pointed, “That’s your influence.”

Not that Crowley ever denied it, more likely to grin and laugh than look chastised. This day, he just looked curious. Curious and a little stressed.

Aziraphale hoped to solve the first and eradicate the second, the little box feeling heavy in his pocket. He had to keep his fingers laced with Crowley’s to keep from digging for it every few seconds. It wouldn’t simply fall from his pocket, no. Aziraphale refused to allow it. But it was... a thing. A thing in his pocket that would change...

Well, it would hardly change anything. They were already as married as could legally be. Currently. This was only a formality. A romantic, wonderful formality. They paused at the café for a wine bottle and a spot of lunch. The picnic basket was surprised to be there, as surprised as the chefs who had filled it, but it was just the sort of thing both angel and demon had expected. One because he’d requested wine for a proposal and the other because his angel had said they were stopping at the café. Surprised basket collected, they continued along the paths to the field.

“Not as busy as normal for July,” Crowley mused, breathing in the comforting scents of soil and blooms. The flowers threw bright colours into the world, a far cry from Hell. As far a cry as the angel on his arm. He was beautiful in all his beige that didn’t quite match, and his favourite tartan bowtie. The pale blue of his shirt seemed brighter in the sun, hardly a cloud overhead. Bright and cheerful and teeming with life - everything Hell wasn’t.

Clueless as to his thoughts, lost in his own, Aziraphale nodded. “No, it isn’t.” Which was wonderful. And very unintentional on his part. He’d accidentally wanted it to be empty for them. Not entirely, no, he wasn’t so selfish, but privacy had certainly been desired. Oops. 

“Are you planning something?”

Aziraphale gasped. “No!” he lied with surprising ease. He’d _already_ planned something. Not even a lie, really. 

Crowley smiled as if he knew it was one anyway. “No?”

Aziraphale huffed quietly, straightening his shoulders and lifting his chin. “No. Now stop being a pest and help me find a lovely shaded spot.”

Shifting the basket to one arm, Crowley swung the other around Aziraphale’s waist in a fond squeeze as they reached the field. They found a bench that was under some shade and had not been before their arrival, not that it minded suddenly being out of the sun. It bore them and the basket between them without a creak of complaint.

Aziraphale beamed as he opened the basket, delighted to find a sea bass and a chicken dish that were still the perfect temperature for dining. There were salads and bread rolls and, of course, the bottle of wine. He wiggled happily, then surprised Crowley by folding the blanket back over the basket and setting it behind him. “An-” He saw his eyes, sucked in a sharp breath. “Aziraphale?”

“Yes.” He took Crowley’s hand in each of his, still beaming but now much more than human. None of their big decisions had been made with him as just as a human and, even knowing what the answer was going to be, this was still a very big decision. And he wanted to ask with as much of him as could be safely allowed.

Crowley’s free hand lifted to his cheek, concern joining that curiosity, and Aziraphale chuckled. “Don’t laugh at me. What’s going on?”

“Nothing you need to fret over, my dearest. Your sunglasses, though, do you mind? I’d like to see your eyes. And I believe we’re more than alone enough for that.”

The field, nearly empty to begin with, had most definitely cleared out. Humans who had been resting in the grasses or on other benches had suddenly found themselves very curious over the rest of the gardens. The glasshouses and the pond were fascinating things, after all. It was a good thing his human guidance had rationalized his abilities so he could flex those muscles now and again.

Crowley slipped his sunglasses off, hooked them in the curve of his black t-shirt. Casual was the current fashion trend, apparently. The tight jeans he hadn’t parted with since the late nineties, a clinging t-shirt, and a jacket that looked leather but was certainly not. Shoulder length hair was pulled into a messy half-bun and Aziraphale thought he was beautiful. From snakeskin boots to the serpentine belt about his waist to the silver chain around his neck and right up to his golden eyes, he was beautiful.

Beautiful and patient and kind, silver-tongued and troublesome and wicked, clever and ridiculous and deceptively suave - he was so much, a million pieces that should’ve contradicted one another but fit so neatly as to leave Aziraphale thrilled with the result. In any decade, any century, any millennia, Crowley was a picture Aziraphale would never tire of admiring. It had taken them so long to get to this place. Sometimes, the phantom shades of such a deeply embedded loneliness would threaten to overwhelm him, but then he would catch sight of that mischievous grin or that wicked glint in his eye or the gentleness in those hands and he’d remember that things were different this time. 

They were different and as beautiful as his de-

Aziraphale took a steadying breath, squeezing Crowley’s hand. “I love you.”

It wasn’t something Crowley could return automatically, not at all a practiced line he was just used to. It was still something he had to pause over, something that still stirred his heart. He’d waited so long to be able to hear it, let alone say it, and being able to say it to the angel was a rare enough treat that he had to slide closer on the bench. He cupped his cheek again, admiring the clear knowledge in blue eyes that put the pretty sky overhead to shame. After all, it had to wait for night to fall to sparkle like Aziraphale’s eyes. “I love you too, dove.”

He smiled, tipping into the touch this time. “I know you do. You’ve done so much for us, Crowley, and you must know I appreciate the sacrifice and difficulty in it.”

“Ngk.” Crowley shrugged, averting his gaze. “Getting to be with you isn’t really a sacrifice.”

Aziraphale only hummed, unable to pull up the words to properly bicker with him about that. He didn’t particularly wish to bicker at the moment anyway. It hadn’t been part of his plan. “Have you seen a newspaper yet today?” he asked instead.

“Mmnno? Dropped you and Damian at the bookshop and headed down to work. Why?”

“Some of your planning has taken hold, and I’ve decided to take advantage of it. If you’ll agree.”

Crowley arched a brow at that rather cryptic response, baffled when Aziraphale retrieved a newspaper from his coat pocket. Well, not the full paper. It was too thin for all that. He took the few pages when they were offered, confusion and curiosity teaming up inside of him. “What-?”

“Read the headline,” Aziraphale urged, waiting for Crowley’s attention to divert to the written word before retrieving a small velvet box from his other pocket. When Crowley drew a ragged breath and looked up, it was to find Aziraphale down on one knee. His smile was back, that beaming light a little shy. “Will you do me the honour of marrying me, Crowley?”

He ripped his gaze away from his eyes to the box, the ring a thin band with three little rubies into the black titanium. He knew it would fit just as Aziraphale did. Nothing else would be acceptable for them. “You-” He snapped his gaze back up. It didn’t occur to him to ask if he was sure, seeing it so clearly in his eyes. Eyes that knew their history stretched further back than this life. Eyes that knew it would stretch well beyond this one so long as they continued to raise Damian as they were. “Yeah. Yes. I- Obviously, Aziraphale.”

“Don’t say _obviously_ like that, you incorrigible thing. And give me your hand.” Aziraphale slid the ring onto his ring finger with a bright smile, the band fitting as well as expected. Of course, he couldn’t resist kissing the back of his hand while he had it captive, Crowley’s laugh unsurprisingly wet and his eyes much the same. 

“You’re absolutely ridiculous.”

“I think you’re the ridiculous one here. Honestly, Crowley.” Aziraphale rose, his own eyes bright with tears. It was such a human thing, entirely their creation, and it shouldn’t have been as important to them as it felt. But, then, _shouldn't_ wasn't really a part of their lives. 

He joined Crowley on the bench, their lips meeting and the paper abandoned to the side so Crowley could cup his cheeks, the engagement ring cool against Aziraphale’s cheek. It was a new, wonderful sensation, and he faded back into humanity when the metal warmed. This memory wasn’t fuzzy at all. No part of him was ever going to forget this moment.

\----

 **_2014  
_** ** _An Old Bandstand_ ** **_[156]_**

It was bound to be a small affair. It had been only the two of them for so long before they’d settled in London. Meeting Tracy had been an accident. She’d been waiting to cross the street one evening, a man nearby leering at her until Aziraphale had insisted that the man stop being so lecherous.[157] Tracy had been so grateful over his stern talking-to that she’d offered to buy him a pastry, laughing knowingly when he’d told her that he was very willing to go on a platonic outing but he was very much involved with someone.

She’d linked their arms and had been so charmingly positive that _he_ was probably a lovely someone that Aziraphale had simply gone along with her. It was difficult to argue with such a force of personality, and he was very glad he hadn’t. She’d been a delightful conversationalist and not at all put off when he’d mentioned something about a past life. That sort of intrigue had led to discussions on tarot readings and seances. It was very difficult not to be friends with someone like her, and Crowley’s fondness for her had only encouraged things further.

Crowley had never fallen into a friendship like that, though he did seem to know Sergeant Shadwell. Aziraphale still very much recalled the first time they’d gone together to Tracy’s flat, the way Shadwell had blustered at seeing Crowley and the way his husband had immediately backed Shadwell into his own flat. “He knew my dad,” was the only explanation he’d gotten, and Aziraphale hadn’t pushed further. He’d very much wanted to, but he hadn’t.

He wouldn’t, particularly not this day. It was a beautiful one. The skies were a bold blue, the clouds across it a fluffy white. Damian kept pointing out the pictures in the shapes, skinny legs wrapped around Crowley’s waist and wrinkling his suit jacket in the process. It was cut fine and neat, the trousers not quite as clingy as his normal denims but drawing Aziraphale’s gaze just the same. He barely dressed up when they went to the Ritz, but he’d even properly knotted a bold red tie for this nonetheless.

Or, well, Aziraphale had knotted his tie. A return of a favour, lips curved and tingling as he remembered why his own bowtie knot was a smidgen askew. For once, he didn’t straighten it. The blue of it was the same colour as the sky overhead, his suit the same white as the clouds. There was something different in the air, a sense of anticipation and, oddly, one of nerves. Aziraphale searched the sky much like his son, but he didn’t seek shapes. He didn’t know what exactly he was seeking, but he didn’t find anything out of the ordinary. He did, however, catch his partner skimming the ground now and again. As if he was searching for something too, something which could threaten them and their happy day.

Aziraphale caught up to him, linking their arms, smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Whatever they were both wary of, it would be fine. It was their day.

Crowley returned the smile, extracting his arm to wrap it about Aziraphale’s waist. He ducked down for a happily reciprocated kiss, broken when the child’s “bleh” of protest made them smile. “We’re still dropping him at Tracy’s, aren’t we?”

“After dinner,” Aziraphale reminded him with a laugh.

“‘Course. Can’t have a wedding without a reception, can we?”

“No, we most certainly cannot.” Aziraphale wiggled giddily. A _wedding_. It was small - them, their child, two friends, and a priest - but it was all they needed.

“Afternoon, all!” the priest greeted, smile genial as he waved from the bandstand.

Aziraphale returned both smile and wave, pleased by his find. While not every church or church leader was supportive of this new law regarding marriage, he’d managed to find this man relatively simply. He had no idea if he came highly recommended, but he did know the priest was happy to weave in the single request Crowley had made for their ceremony. 

Well, besides not having the ceremony in a church. Aziraphale wouldn’t have dragged him into one anyway. It was the same thing which told him to never take Crowley to Vatican City in Rome or into Notre Dame when they visited Paris. There were some things that weren’t done between them, and that one was strictly about safety. For some reason.

“Hello,” he greeted when they were close enough, breaking away from Crowley to shake the man’s hand. “It’s lovely to meet you. It’s very kind of you to spend your Saturday afternoon on us.”

“It’s no trouble at all, I assure you.” He turned his attention towards the other two, offering a hand. “Mr. Crowley, it’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Right. Yeah. Er. You too.” He reached out with his child-free hand, having been conveniently absent when Aziraphale had gone to chat with him at his church, and shook. Quick and firm as if a little wary of letting the contact linger. As if it would burn, Aziraphale casting a surreptitious look at his palm to make sure it hadn’t. Hm. 

“Oh, this is a lovely old bandstand, isn’t it?” Tracy asked, in what she’d call her Sunday best. Her wig was a mousy brown one with one neat plait that tickled Crowley to no end. But most of what Tracy did amused Crowley. It was a very different tale with Shadwell, Crowley almost too careful not to talk to him overmuch.

The man looked more than a little overwhelmed, though, so it was perhaps for the best. The buttons on his shabby coat shone and he’d apparently run a comb through his receding hair, so he’d at least dressed up for the occasion. He just seemed thoroughly baffled as to why or how he’d found himself on Tracy’s arm. The dear lady seemed thoroughly amused by this turn of events. “S’fine,” he grunted, clearly not at all sure what to say otherwise. “Seen one, ye seen ‘em all.”

As many times as he’d called Aziraphale a Southern pansy - _before_ Crowley had backed him into his flat for their secret chat - he was sure the man had never expected to find himself attending a queer wedding. He didn’t seem inclined to ruin the ceremony, though, so Aziraphale had no true objections to his presence. Tracy seemed thrilled enough to have dragged the reclusive witchfinder along, too, so another reason to tolerate him.

Not to mention that, for all his gruffness, he was good to Damian. Certainly not as good as Tracy and they would certainly not be leaving their child in that borderline hoarder situation of a flat anytime soon, but neither Crowley nor Aziraphale worried if Damian came home with tales of Tracy’s mad neighbor.

He smiled when Crowley set their son down, unable to resist ruffling his hair just to hear him laugh. “Oi,” he protested, very much like Crowley. He beamed at his partner, well-prepared to grant him a new label.

“You have everything you need? We can begin as soon as you’re ready.”

“Oh, yes. I believe we have what we needed. The rings and the ribbon.”

“ _I_ get the ribbon,” Damian announced proudly, jabbing a thumb into his own puffed out chest. “I’ve been practicing and all.”

Crowley chuckled, giving his hair a light tug. “S’pose we’ll see if that pays off.”

“It will,” he said with all the certainty of a child.

Aziraphale smiled, producing the patterned ribbon from his pocket. His Heaven’s Dress tartan would be used for it, to link them as family. He hadn’t managed to convince Crowley to _wear_ any of the pattern, but he had a kerchief of it in his breast pocket and Damian had one to match in his much smaller suit jacket. It was enough for Aziraphale. Their little clan of three. Damian took it very carefully, running his fingers along the slinky fabric in fascination, but stepped back when Tracy guided him a few steps away to stand with her and Shadwell.

Nerves suddenly swam in Aziraphale’s veins, pumped as surely as his blood. They were getting married. He was excited, had been for nearly a year now, but it suddenly seemed like such an enormous embarkation. Almost dangerous, though he didn’t understand why he felt that way. 

He reached up, touching Crowley’s sunglasses in question. Crowley briefly worried his lower lip, but nodded, and Aziraphale pulled them off and handed them to Tracy. He’d told the priest that his husband had an eye condition, of course, and Tracy seemed to accept them with nothing more than lifted brows and a smiling hum. Shadwell, somehow, didn’t seem to notice them. It didn’t matter, though, not when he saw excitement and fear and nerves reflected back at him, golden eyes uncovered and also filled with such an intense love that Aziraphale could’ve sworn he felt it in the air. Sparking like something alive, wrapping him up in a tight embrace.

They took their places in the center of the bandstand, the priest before them, and his entire being unfurled when his hands found themselves enveloped in Crowley’s. His love’s eyes brightened, grin quick and unable to be fully banished.

“Welcome, loved ones. We are gathered here today to unite Anthony J. Crowley and Aziraphale Fell in marriage.”

Aziraphale’s breath caught at the words, expected but not, and his eyes began to swim.

“Crowley, please take the ring you have selected for Aziraphale. As you place it on his finger, please recite your vows.”

They didn’t have a ring bearer at their little ceremony, but they had pockets. Crowley gave his hands a squeeze before reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a small velvet box. In it was a golden ring, shaped like a serpent. The first tear spilled. Of _course_ it would be a serpent. Of _course_ he’d pick something with so much symbolism, just as Aziraphale had in his choice. 

Left hand offered alongside a watery smile, Aziraphale watched Crowley slide the ring onto his finger. It fit as perfectly as was expected. “Aziraphale,” he began, “I... Ngk. I- Well. Never really thought we’d get here. Hoped, but... After this, I’ll get to call you my husband. I get to love you in the open how I’ve... always wanted to do.”

Always, yes. Since the beginning, further back than Aziraphale could think, but he nodded. The same longings were in him. “I’m, yeah, finally marrying you. I’ve spent so much of this life learning and growing with you. Exploring and adventuring with you, too. I know we’ll keep at it. And I, y’know, promise to respect you as an equal partner, through everything. Through all the joy and pain, strength and weariness, direction and doubt - all the good and bad that’s ever been in the world. I want it with you for... forever.”

“Oh, darling,” he sighed, cheeks decidedly wet now, even when Crowley reached up and cupped his cheek to thumb the tears away. With a small laugh, he shook his head and took out his own ring. The golden band was fashioned much the same way as the ring now on his finger, though rather than a coiling snake, it held an outstretched wing. Crowley stilled when he saw it, hand limp when Aziraphale caught it and slipped it on right alongside the engagement ring.

“Crowley... I take you to be nothing other than your wily, mischievous self. Loving what I know of you, and trusting what I do not yet know, I will respect your integrity and have faith in your abiding love for me, through all our years, and in all that this life and any others may bring us. You’ve taken the lonely away and replaced it with something so vibrant and delightful, I hardly know what to do with myself at times. I promise to respect you as an equal partner, through everything. Through all the joy and pain, strength and weariness, direction and doubt - all the good and bad that’s ever been in the world. I want this and you for always.”

Across from him, fingers curling into and twining with Aziraphale’s, Crowley swallowed. His eyes were bright with unshed tears, and a strangled little sound let itself out. Unplanned, unbidden, feeling a little like a dare, Aziraphale added, “Before God and these witnesses I promise to be faithful and true.”

Both he and Crowley held their breath, but nothing happened to them. The priest continued even as Crowley’s grip tightened and a small laugh tangled with his sounds. “Bastard,” he mouthed and Aziraphale lifted his hand to rub his lips over the knuckles.

“When you look at these rings on your hands, be reminded of this moment, your commitment, and the love you now feel for each other,” the priest was saying, as if they needed a reminder of this feeling in their hearts. The one which had carried them through more years than any living person could fathom.

They had one another, and they would long after the stars burned themselves out.

“Damian?”

The name drew them both away from a very dangerous line of thought, Aziraphale taking a steadying breath before looking over at the boy. He looked nervous, twisting the ribbon in his hands, and his parents smiled. Aziraphale beckoned him gently. “Come now, duck. It’s your turn.” Crowley nodded.

Grinning, hesitation vanishing under the welcome from them, Damian stepped closer and his parents crouched down so he could reach their joined hands without any fuss. Smiling, he - with Crowley and Aziraphale assisting - looped the ribbon over their wrists and hands. He tied a very messy knot, but it would tighten with a few tugs once the ceremony was over and stayed tied.

As he fumbled through in all his childlike eagerness, the priest explained the handfasting ceremony. “In the joining of hands and the fashion of a knot, so are your lives now bound, one to another. By this ribbon you are thus bound to your vows. May this knot remain tied for as long as your love shall last. May this ribbon draw your hands together in that love, never to be used in anger or torment. And may this binding draw you together as family, strong and true.

“Before these witnesses, you have pledged to be joined in marriage. You have now sealed this pledge with your wedding rings. By the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you married! May you both be blessed,” he added and Crowley winced so carefully Aziraphale only felt it because of their joined hands. He gave Crowley’s hand a gentle squeeze, terribly amused even if he couldn’t put why into words. “And may you now seal your commitment with a kiss.”

Crowley cupped the back of his neck with his free hand and pulled him in, sealing their lips together whilst Tracy cooed and Shadwell made some sort of grunting noise that managed to convey approval and his discomfort perfectly. But it was Damian’s very put-upon sigh that broke their first kiss as husbands, the two of them laughing too much to continue. For the moment, at least.

There was plenty of time ahead. There had to be far more than five years in store for them. Aziraphale wouldn’t stand for anything less and, he knew, neither would Crowley.

* * *

* * *

### Footnotes

155. Of course there was a wiggle. Why did you even bother reading this? You knew it was going to say he wiggled, which he did. Very enthusiastically, I might add, because he'd only just found the perfect engagement ring when the call came through.↩

156. Yes, _that_ old bandstand.↩

157. He’d done so with enough intensity that the man had joined a church the very next day and would remain celibate until marriage unless the un-leered at woman he wanted was fully consenting. A jolly good turn around Aziraphale had no idea of but would’ve been pleased to learn.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice that I've increased the chapter count. Damian's changed a lot, lol. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [Syl-Writes-Stuff](https://syl-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/) and my lovely beta at [skimmingmilk](https://skimmingmilk.tumblr.com/).


	19. Why Worry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kids know more than adults give them credit for, especially this kid. An angel and a demon are just doing their best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank [SkimmingTheSurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface) for being such a good beta! And one who keeps track of the days better than I!
> 
> [Our chapter song](https://open.spotify.com/track/39ShyO1yBCiEoEXHX9ie0F?si=_VYMovmMSdiaDDWcQgsrtw) as usual. Don't forget the playlist is updated with every chapter :D

_Normal, in our house,  
_ _is like a blanket too short for a bed--  
_ _sometimes it covers you just fine,  
_ _and other times it leaves you cold and shaking;  
_ _and worst of all,  
_ _you never know which of the two it's going to be._

\- Jodi Picoult

* * *

**_2019  
_** **_Mayfair, London_ **

As July ended and August began, the summer proving to be hot and muggy, Crowley’s nerves heightened. They grew and tangled in him like a poison, spreading into every part of his life. He’d be eleven soon, the Antichrist. He hadn’t looked at Damian and thought of the Antichrist in years, seeing only their son for so long that it seemed impossible for him to be anything more. To be the spawn of Satan himself. The Great Beast. The bringer of doom, or whatever else he was called. He was just such a good kid.

Not perfect, no. Not at all. He was a ten year old boy, for Someone’s sake. A _kid_. A kid who cared about the future and had a scattering of friends from school who called him DW. Crowley wasn’t completely convinced that it wasn’t some sort of teasing, but if it was... If it was, the Antichrist would be able to stop that nonsense in a heartbeat.

Maybe they should’ve homeschooled him. Yeah. They obviously should’ve homeschooled him. Kept him away from any potential bullies or darkness in the world, only shown him the good and light things worth saving. He had to believe the Earth was worth saving.

This boy who liked American baseball and had Transformers scattered across his shelves. There was also a carefully organized stamp collection in a binder on one shelf and Bazooka Joe comics in another, even though his favourite gum was banana-flavoured. His love of both books and cartoons had turned into a strong fondness for comics and graphic novels, and his fingers were usually smudged with some sort of coloured ink. Damian's own art scattered throughout the flat and, whether it was parental pride or actual fact, Crowley thought he was getting better every day.

He was also getting better at maths every day, something which puzzled each parent. They certainly had no aptitude for it.[158] The first time Damian had come home with an algebra problem asking him to “find X” Crowley had leaned over him and blankly circled the letter. Easy. And, even though Damian had laughed himself silly, Aziraphale had at least agreed with him. Same page, then, and their son knew better than to come to them when he was struggling except to ask if they’d take him to a tutoring session. The wisest choice.

Which was kind of an issue. He had to make a wise choice and he was _ten_. He’d be eleven in just a couple of weeks, but that wasn’t going to make that big of a difference. Crowley _wanted_ to think Damian would dismiss the dog - the Hellhound - outright, but would he? And would he then be able to resist the pull of powers he and Aziraphale - well, at least that _he_ could only dream of? 

Armageddon wasn’t eleven, six, three, or even one year(s) away now. It was _weeks_ away. He didn’t have a backup plan. Either this worked or... Or he’d die? Sneak into Heaven while no one was looking and try rescuing Aziraphale’s discorporated soul? Maybe they could be discorporated together, roam the world as spirits. That could work, couldn’t it?

He didn’t want to think about it, but it could probably work. Wouldn’t have to worry about Aziraphale’s memories discorporating him if they were beyond that point.

A quiet laugh drew his attention across the family room. He could hardly remember when it had been a bleak, empty office. It had been too long, too many better memories of that couch, the loveseat, the armchairs - one of which currently inhabited by a gangly ten year old who had a distinct inability to sit properly. He was upside-down, his socked feet slung over one of the arms and the ends of his dark hair brushing the carpet. It was, for the first time in Damian’s short life, longer than Crowley’s. He’d changed the style recently, short and artfully tousled. And Aziraphale certainly liked it, from how often he’d bury his fingers in it.

Anyway, the disaster sprawled messily across a chair was definitely his kid, Crowley thought fondly, forgetting he was the Antichrist for another moment. Curious, he rose from the couch where he’d been buried in his own mobile and grabbed one of those feet, startling Damian into dropping his phone on his face. It tumbled to the floor, screen up. “Dad!”

“Wot?”

“You _know_ what! You’re _awful_!”

“Is it my fault you weren’t paying attention?” Crowley grinned when he stuck out his tongue. His kid. “That’s a no. What were you laughing at?”

“Oh!” He scrabbled for his phone, then reached up to let Crowley pull him into a proper seated position that wouldn’t make Aziraphale roll his eyes or tut at them should he come in. “It’s a video. This guy’s chasing his duck, Gary. He’s got a whole series of videos like this.”

As up to date with technologies and fashion as Crowley had managed to stay over the millennia, humanity’s sense of humour had probably undergone the _most_ changes. A bit of slapstick had been funny since the Garden, sure, but a man chasing a scarf-wearing duck and letting out very stressed bellows of, “Gary, that’s my scarf! Gar- _Gary_!” was something that could probably only be funny in this day and age, where information and short videos could be passed instantly. Clever humans.

Except the, ah, source of the app in question wasn’t strictly humans. “That app's evil,” he revealed conversationally.

Damian paused in his scrolling to the next short burst of amusement and looked up. “How do you know?”

It had been his idea, but that wasn't the sort of thing you told a kid. Well, his kid. “Mng. It's set up to data mine your device and the software has a hidden key tracker that works across the device being used. Makes it easy to steal passwords.”

Damian's brow furrowed, suspicious under his dark fringe. “So I should stop using it?” 

“ _Well_ , I didn't say that.”

“But you said it was evil and it tracks what I'm typing.”

Weren't/Didn't most apps nowadays do one or both of those things? “I did. Don't recall saying ‘stop.’ That's your choice.”

“But... If something's wrong, you should stop.”

“ _Wrong_ is subjective.” At the blank look, he waved a hand. He was proud of him for all of his questions, for his theories, and for thinking the obvious - yes, stop the bad thing. Stop the Hellhound. Stop the war. “Ngk. _Wrong_ is up for interpretation, I think. Lots of people think things are wrong that aren't, don't they? Your papa and me being together, for one.” Their last meeting at the school still tasted sour on Crowley’s tongue, but Aziraphale’s dressing down of the bigot's character had been a glory to behold. His wonderful, bastard of a husband. “Look, it's your choice. I'm just making sure you have all the information you need to make it.”

“Why?”

Crowley stared at him for a few seconds before shrugging. “I think choices are something that shouldn't be made without all the information.”

Damian frowned at him long enough that Crowley’s brows arched and he opened his mouth to elaborate before being interrupted by, “Is this a trick?” 

The eyebrows did not lose their arch. “A what?” 

“A trick. At school, other kids say their parents trick them all the time. Or lie about what they actually want done.”

“Do I look like other parents? Do I _act_ like other parents?” Offended, both on his own behalf and on behalf of Damian's schoolmates, Crowley made a gagging sort of sound and scowled. “No, it's not a bloody trick. The app's evil, and now you know. Keep using it or don't. End of story.”

Crowley watched Damian close and swipe away the app and, when he saw him on it an hour later, felt a twinge of disappointment but didn't say a word. Even when Damian noticed him looking and, instead of sharing his screen, he hid it away as if he didn’t actually believe that Crowley wouldn’t punish him. Kid should know better by now. Crowley had been giving humanity knowledge-based choices from the start, after all. He wasn't going to start being furious about them now.

Maybe a little scared, but not furious.

\----

“Papa,” Damian began that night, helping Aziraphale in the kitchen. He liked to pound the chicken breasts flat with the big hammer, and Aziraphale liked to let him. “There's this video app that's popular at school.”

Oh, Heavens. Immediately out of his depth, Aziraphale smiled and wondered how soon before he'd have to call Crowley. “Oh?” 

“Yeah. Dad saw me on it earlier, and he said it's evil.”

“Ah. Well, I imagine he's correct. He does know more about these things than I.”

“Right,” he agreed, quickly enough that Aziraphale felt a smidge offended. No matter that it was true. “But then he said he didn't care if I stopped using it or not. He said it was up to me.”

That certainly sounded like Crowley. “Well, what have you decided?” 

“I don't know. Is he just messing with me?” 

Aziraphale paused, a partially cracked egg in hand. “Messing with you?” 

“Yeah. Like- like is he just _saying_ it's my choice? If he sees me on it again, is he going to yell at me?” 

“Damian, when on Earth has your dad ever yelled at you for a decision you made?” 

“Well... Only when I do something without getting all the facts first.”

“Precisely.” Satisfied, Aziraphale finished cracking the egg into the dish and picked up a fork to break the yolk and stir quickly. “And he gave you all the facts?” 

“I think so. He told me why the app's evil, anyway. But it's fun, and I like watching the videos people make. And I like talking about them with my friends. I’d be the _only_ one not watching, papa.”

“Alright.” Aziraphale still wasn’t entirely sure what the problem was. Crowley had given him a choice, the details, and now it was up to Damian to do as he would. He added two more eggs to the bowl and gave his son a different chicken breast to flatten before the boy spoke again. 

“So if he's not messing with me, should I stop using it? Since it's evil and all?” 

A brow lifted. Ah. “That's up to you, duck.”

Damian sighed, his next smack half-hearted at best. “That’s the _problem_. Dad said that too. He said I should make choices based on all the information.”

“Do you _have_ all the information?” Aziraphale wondered again, tipping bread crumbs into a second bowl. 

“Dunno! I didn't look into it or anything.” Damian frowned at him, neglecting the mallet entirely as he sought answers. “Should I?” 

Aziraphale hummed, pausing to consider the question. He and Crowley had done their best over the years to take his questions seriously, to encourage and fan that spark of curiosity. Decision-making was an important thing to learn and certainly worth an extra moment of thought, even though his opinion didn't exactly match Crowley’s. Knowledge was important, but it wasn’t the only factor involved in decisions. Or it shouldn’t be. “I believe... That some choices don't require knowledge, only faith.”

“Like believing in God or not?” 

“Not only regarding the Almighty. Simple choices too.” Aziraphale gestured for Damian to continue pounding the mallet so they could continue dinner preparations. “Have you ever touched a hot burner on a stove?” 

“No. You and dad told me it'd burn.”

“We did, but do _you_ know that or are you taking us at our word? Following the wisdom of those who came before you rather than cultivating your own experience? Verifying knowledge?” 

He frowned, leaning against Aziraphale’s soft side in a way that sweetly reminded him of a smaller Crowley. “I guess I just... believe you.”

“Exactly. You're making a faith-based choice, rather than a knowledge-based one. People do that every day, duck. Relying on the wisdom of others to inform their choices. To the analogy, there's no proof the stove is hot and there's no proof it will burn your hand. There's only our word.” Aziraphale poked his nose. “That being said, don't you dare touch that stovetop when it's on. Your dad may not punish you for foolish choices, but I certainly will.”

Damian laughed. “I won't.”

Contented silence reigned again, broken only by the music playing from Damian's mobile telephone. It was exactly like Crowley’s, but they had timers and restrictions on the applications. It had been Aziraphale’s only stipulation before agreeing to give him a mobile for his tenth birthday, and Crowley hadn't argued. They agreed more than they disagreed when it came to raising their son. 

Eventually, swiss cheese and ham rolled up in the flattened chicken breasts and fingers sticky from the egg and breadcrumbs the rolls had been dunked in, Damian asked, “What if I do both?” 

“Hm?” 

“I can make choices both ways, can't I? Kind of.” He stood on his toes in front of Aziraphale, still not quite tall enough to reach the faucet. The kitchen counters were high and he hadn’t yet hit any sort of a growth spurt. 

Aziraphale switched the water on for him, poured some Fairy soap over his palms so he could scrub the raw chicken from his skin. “How do you mean, duck?” 

“I can stop using the app just based on what dad said 'cause I believe him. But then I'll look it all up. And see if I'll keep not using it or if it's not as bad as he says.”

Aziraphale smiled, wiping off his own hands before ruffling his dark hair. “I think that sounds like a lovely compromise.”[159]

\----

Damian Warlock Crowley-Fell had two favourite places in the entire world: his bedroom in the Mayfair flat and the bookshop in Soho. He liked his bedroom because they’d redone it just a few years before and his parents had let him paint a mural on one wall. After quite a bit of hesitation, dad had helped and they’d ended up with something like a galaxy. Swirling colours and bright stars that had made his dad look proud but weirdly sad. Papa hadn’t been able to explain why, only saying that sometimes adults had feelings they didn’t know how to deal with.

Dad had pulled him onto the couch that night with his giant astronomy book, and he’d learned that his dad knew way too much about galaxies far far away but also believed that angels had put them there. A super unexpected admission from him. He’d always figured the only angel his dad believed in was papa.

He’d asked then if either his dad or papa could put stars in the sky too, or if they weren’t that sort of magic. By then, he’d figured out that the quirks he’d noticed as early as four were pretty special to his parents. Other kids’ crayons snapped and wore down. Other kids’ coloured pencils needed sharpening all the time. Other kids ran out of glue, marker ink, pencils, but not Damian. When he gave his things away to other kids, they still wouldn’t fade so he got into the habit of giving away extra supplies to students who needed them and getting his parents to refill his bookbag with more magic supplies. 

But there were other things, of course. Elevators always opened as they approached, button pressed or not. When his parents distractedly reached for something far away, the object would slide right into their grasp. When he’d pretended to be asleep one night in the back of the Bentley on a trip up to Scotland the summer before and papa had actually been asleep, he’d watched every single street light change at the snap of dad’s fingers as they approached. Taxis always pulled over for papa and, often, the drivers seemed surprised that they’d even stopped. 

Papa’s cooking, too, was a little... different from those of his schoolmates’ parents. Papa’s water boiled after three minutes on the dot every single time and nothing ever got burnt even though he cooked everything on high. He hadn’t known what to think when he’d seen someone else’s mom cooking on medium. He’d lamented that the food would take hours, but it had been done at a familiar speed. The oven, too, always heated to the correct temperature instantly. _Pre-heating_ was a foreign concept.

And, seriously, that was only scratching the surface. He’d seen even more odd things at the bookshop when papa thought he wasn’t looking. He’d help people on the street. Damian didn’t always know how, but he’d see his papa’s gaze stray out of the grimy windows sometimes, lingering on people who seemed upset, and sometimes papa just seemed to _focus_ so specifically on those people, they’d suddenly seem much happier. Not to mention how he avoided selling his books. He’d seen one person come in once, head straight to a shelf, and squeal in excitement as they pulled one away. Damian had fully expected papa to talk them out of it or just ignore them until they gave up and left of their own accord, but this person had gotten the book and a pleasant chat besides. Only once had that happened in eleven years. And when Damian had asked him about it, papa had smiled and said, “She knew what she wanted, duck, and how to find it.”

Okay, okay, he didn’t know if that last one was strictly _magic_ , but his parents had powers other parents didn’t have. So he’d asked that day, tucked in close to his dad’s side with galaxies spread before them, and his dad had worried his lower lip. A rarity.

And then he’d answered. “No. We’re not that kind of magic.”

“What kind are you?”

“Ngk. Damian... It’sss complicated.”

“Well, I’ll just ask papa and-”

“ _No_.” He’d winced automatically, the tone just so sharp and foreign when he was so rarely snapped at by either parent. They expressed their disapproval in other, far more painful ways. Like _disappointment_. Nothing was quite as cutting as papa sighing quietly and walking away unless it was dad tipping his head to the side with a soft, _“You know what you’ve done.”_

Oh, no, nothing was worse than those. That panicked “no,” though, was really close.

“...Dad?”

Dad had taken a deep, steadying breath before looking at him. Looking at him with snakelike eyes that were as normal to him as his papa’s blue ones. They’d never scared him, had never seemed weird to him, and he could read them as well as papa sometimes. They’d been scared that afternoon. “Your papa doesn’t... He doesn’t know he’s got any proper magic.”

“What d’you mean?”

“I _mean_ he doesn’t know, and we can’t tell him. It wouldn’t be safe, Damian. He... He’d leave, and he wouldn’t ever be able to come back.”

“Why?”

“Mnngh... Bad people want to hurt him, alright? They’d hurt me and your papa if they knew about us. So he doesn’t know, and he can’t. It’s safer.”

It had sounded like a fairytale to Damian. Like papa was cursed or something, but true love was clearly not the cure here. He’d grown resigned to it, as no one loved like his parents loved. He was absolutely convinced of that. Even when they argued, the words “I understand” tended to get thrown around a lot and things were usually resolved the same day. It wasn’t a bad place to be, and they were definitely not bad parents to have. A curse could be handled, and things got a little cooler because, when it was just the two of them, dad would do more magic in front of him now that he knew Damian wasn’t oblivious.

In the weeks leading up to his eleventh birthday, though, things started to change in the Mayfair flat. Dad looked out the window more, stepped out to talk on his phone more, went on longer walks alone, and he wasn’t eating. He already didn’t eat _much_ , but this seemed a little wild. And papa noticed because, well, papa noticed _everything_ about dad.

Not that papa wasn’t acting weird either. He, too, looked out the windows more. He kept the sporadically open bookshop closed even more, curtains drawn when they were there. When they were open, Damian wasn’t allowed to be at papa’s desk by the windows anymore. He usually had to hide away in the backroom or upstairs in the flat that didn’t seem like it’d been used in decades. It was weird, stressful, and just... really not cool. At all.

“Dad?” he asked, fiddling with the seatbelt. There were groceries and a new book for papa on the backseat. 

The radio turned itself down, which wasn’t a surprise. He was at least ninety percent sure the Bentley was magic too. “What is it?”

“You and papa aren’t getting a divorce or something, are you?”

The Bentley screeched to a halt and, well, Damian wasn’t entirely sure if that had been his dad’s doing or the car’s. Another tick in the _Bentley is Magic_ column. “ _Wot_.”

Maybe not a divorce then. “Or- or are you going to make me get re-adopted somewhere?” Because he wasn’t stupid. He didn’t look like either parent and neither of them could carry a baby, so he’d definitely been adopted. Nerves caught in his throat, his hands wringing together like papa’s did when he was nervous and choked sounds escaping the way dad’s did when he was. “I- You guys have just been _weird_. So what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Damian pressed his lips together. “You’re a liar.”

Dad’s jaw dropped.[160] He just sat there, gaping at him while traffic ebbed and flowed around them as if they weren’t in the way at all. “No, we’re not getting a divorce. And, _no_ , we’re not giving you away. We love you, Damian. What the bloody buggering _Heaven_ are you on about?”

“You’ve been _weird_!” he insisted. “All tense and, like, fidgety and so’s papa. Hanging out at the bookshop isn’t as fun anymore. It’s like you guys are waiting for something, and I don’t like it.”

“Damian...” Dad’s hands shifted over the wheel a moment before he slumped back, glasses sliding down his nose so he could rub between his eyes. “Fuck’s sake, kid. It’s... You know those, er, people who want to muck about with me and your papa?”

“The one’s who cursed him.”

“Yeah. They...”

It suddenly felt like he was in a movie more than a fairytale, Damian’s fists curling in his denims as he stared up at his dad with wide eyes. “Have you _seen_ them?” he wondered, more excited than he probably should be. 

“No.” Dad’s lips quirked, looking out the windscreen. Probably. Papa always seemed to know exactly where dad’s gaze was, but Damian was still trying to figure that out. “But there’s a chance they’re coming soon. Your papa doesn’t know about that, not really, but he...”

“You’re freaked out, so he’s freaked out.”

“I am not _freaked out_ ,” he denied, reaching out to shake Damian’s shoulder fondly. “I’m the right amount of worried.”

“Super freaked out.” Dad pushed his sunglasses down his nose, slanting him a look, and Damian only grinned wider. But it slipped away after a moment and he went right back to fiddling with his seatbelt. “So if they’re gonna come, what are we gonna do?”

“ _You_ aren’t doing a thing.”[161] The Bentley started forward again, segueing right back into traffic with ease. “You let me do the appropriate amount of worrying, and just do what me and Aziraphale tell you to do. Both of us.”

It had always been both of them. Their united front was something Damian liked even more than their magic. No matter what happened, they were on the same side. Not always fun when he was getting in trouble for something, but the rest of the time?

The world would be a ton better if more people loved and communicated like his parents. He’d gotten pretty lucky in the whole adoption thing, if anybody asked him.

* * *

* * *

### Footnotes

158. To be frank, his teachers would claim that Damian’s parents also had no aptitude for history or science. And, by humans standards, they’d be right.↩

159. And so, when Aziraphale told him later that night, did Crowley.↩

160. The fucking cheek. The audacity. Sure, the kid was right, but how dare he?↩

161. Crowley hoped. Sort of. What he needed Damian to do was send a Hellhound away without naming it. Throat-ripper and Stalks-by-night were cool names in theory, but the work behind a dog like that would be a lot for a kid.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing them as parents so much, you guys. There's a reason the chapter count has gone up and that's it, lmao
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [Syl-Writes-Stuff](https://syl-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/) and my lovely beta at [skimmingmilk](https://skimmingmilk.tumblr.com/).


	20. Beginning of the End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An eleventh birthday doesn't go as planned. Oh, Crowley...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [SkimmingTheSurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface) for her beta work! 💖
> 
> [Our chapter song](https://open.spotify.com/track/5k67j5Tqq0JqhzzfbIS81j?si=caMOih55QlOfVt5feAmIGg) isn't exactly subtle, lol

_You are a child of the universe,  
_ _no less than the trees and the stars;  
_ _you have a right to be here.  
_ _And whether or not it is clear to you,  
_ _no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should._

\- Max Ehrmann

* * *

**_Wednesday  
_** **_4 Days Till the End of the World  
_ ** **_Mayfair, London_ **

There were more kids than normal in their flat, five extra sets of feet pounding across the floors between Damian’s bedroom, the living room, and the kitchen. There’d been one instance of worry, but Damian’s “Oi, if you wreck dad’s plants, he’ll kill us!” had alleviated that quick enough, Aziraphale’s sigh making him laugh.

It had felt good, that laugh. A whole lot better than the tension that had coiled tight in his gut. Being in an upper level flat would hardly matter to a Hellhound, so he fully expected a beast to make an appearance. He glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time that day, worrying his lower lip until firm arms wound around him. 

Aziraphale pressed his cheek between Crowley’s shoulder blades. “What’s wrong, dearest?”

“Nothing.”

“I would very much appreciate it if you didn’t lie to me, sweet.”

Crowley sighed. “It’s... It’s a work thing. A delivery that’s s’posed to be made.” Aziraphale hummed, so Crowley dropped his hands to his arm. “I’m just worried about how it’s going to go,” he admitted. 

“Darling...” He knew without looking that the angel was the one holding onto him. “I know this means eleven years. But he’s such a good boy. You know that. He’s- He’s just Damian.”

He was, but he was something else too. “We’ll know after the delivery, dove. He _is_ a pretty good kid. He’s a lot like you.”

“He’s a lot like both of us,” Aziraphale pointed out, kissing the back of Crowley’s neck when he grunted. He didn’t take the reassuring words as quite the relief Aziraphale seemed to have expected. But could he really be blamed? He was a demon. It was different. The evil half of their good and evil combination.

He missed the way his own hands were gentle when he turned and cupped Aziraphale’s cheeks. “I just want everything to be...” He wanted things to continue. He wanted to have his little family as long as he possibly could and then keep it even longer. This was _not_ going to be the end of them, damn it. He just had to watch for the Hellhound.

“It’s going to be fine, my dear.” Aziraphale gave him a gentle squeeze, and Crowley took his soft kiss with an accepting sigh. “We’re all going to be fine,” he whispered, the angel slipping beneath the surface again and leaving Crowley craving more. It wasn’t often that he hated their situation, finding it easy enough to accept after so many decades together, so much time living this life. Without having to occasionally visit Hell, he could be easily convinced that they really were just a trio of humans. Another small family amongst trillions. 

But he _did_ have Hell to answer to, to think about. The fallout to this was going to be... legendary. He had, after all, supposedly been watching and filling the Antichrist’s head with evil for eleven years. If he sent the dog away, that’d be a great big failure on his part.

Oh, fuck, he hadn’t thought this through.

He had to come up with an excuse very fast because it was already... He checked his watch behind Aziraphale’s back and took a sharp step back. “Crowley?”

It was after three. He backed up further, turning away from his husband to locate Damian amongst the gaggle of pre-teens. They’d hunkered down to tear into a video game, but there wasn’t a dog. There wasn’t even a whiff of the sulphur a freshly released Hellhound would undoubtedly give off. As the kids argued over which colour controller they wanted, Crowley whirled around and stalked right by Aziraphale as he pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Need to make a call.”

“Crowley-”

“Do _not_ follow me.”

That drew Aziraphale up short, his outstretched hand hovering for a moment, just long enough for guilt to sink its fangs into Crowley’s heart. Then he cleared his throat and straightened his waistcoat. “Fine,” he replied, clipped and hurt.

Crowley couldn’t spare the time to apologize. The Hellhound was late. He quickly stepped into the hallway, bringing the phone up to his ear. It didn’t actually dial, but his intent had it ringing anyway.

“Hello, Crowley,” a waspish voice hissed.

“Uh, hi,” he greeted, fighting to keep the panic out of his voice. There was still no Hellhound. “Wh- who’s this?”

“Dagon, Lord of the Files, Master of Torments.”

“Yeah.” Just what he needed, the Master of Torments. “Just checking in about the Hellhound.”

“He should be with you by now,” Dagon replied, and Crowley felt his heart seize in his chest. Oh. Oh, no. “Why? Has something gone _wrong_ , Crowley?”

“Wrong? No! No. Nothing’s wrong. What could be wrong?” He was going to die. His entire little family was going to be wiped off the map for this. The Hellhound wasn’t there. _The Hellhound wasn’t there._ “Oh! No, I see him now, yes. What a lovely, big... helly Hellhound. Yes, okay, great talking to you.”

He sharply hung up the phone and stared blindly down the hall. Nothing stared back. _No dog._ Then his knees seemed to give up, body sliding slowly down the wall until he was sat on the very nice, very clean floors outside of the flat he and Aziraphale had been living in for years. The place they’d raised the supposed Antichrist for eleven years. But... _Wrong boy._

He wheezed. How the Heaven had he ended up with the wrong boy? Oh, no. Oh, fuck, had the Americans ended up with the actual Antichrist after all?

Crowley scrambled to his feet and disappeared from the hall, ending up in the Bentley with his keys in hand. He knew where the Dowling Estate was, of course. He had all the memos from Hell tucked in one of his safes, all the descriptions of this plan which was _not_ supposed to be going so wrong. Reading the mood, the Bentley sped off with a wailing guitar that drowned out the ringing of Crowley’s phone as they raced towards the ambassador’s manor. If the Hellhound was there- If he couldn’t-

Somebody’s sake, what had _happened_?

\----

There was a white tent in the yard, filled with the sounds of children screaming over a magician. No one noticed a snake slithering in amongst the pile of presents, the sheer mountain of food, and the security guards disguised as waiters. Par for the course for an American ambassador, Crowley mused, forked tongue flicking the air. Excitement and joy featured heavily, very similar to the birthday party he’d just left behind, but there was a sharp undercurrent of greed that wasn’t in his own flat. No sulphur, though.

He wriggled across the floor, scenting the air a few more times just to make sure he wasn’t missing something. There were sugar and sweets, any healthy options left far behind. Not the best idea for a kids’ party, Crowley mused, just imagining the sugar rush and inevitable crash. It’s like the Dowlings were wretched parents or...

Right. Yes. That had been the point. Absent father, distracted mother, servants at his beck and call - the child raised in the Dowling household was almost guaranteed to end up greedy and selfish. His presence had simply been meant to ensure that and to guide the boy’s powers as they developed.

From what he could tell, the enormous boy sitting front and center and jeering the loudest at the magician on stage was very greedy and very selfish. Little greasy, too, if Crowley was being honest. He watched the magician studiously ignore the jeering of children and rather masterfully execute a teleportation trick. He thought of Aziraphale and his accidental bouts of fifty-two pickup anytime he tried a card trick that required more than one second spent shuffling the deck. Or his tendency to drop coins before they ever managed to appear behind ears. It was insufferable and he hated every second.[162]

He hated being spotted more, a scream going up from one of the easily distracted children. “Snake!”

Oh. Bollocks.

He made to turn-tail and run,[163] but suddenly found himself being shot at by two trigger-happy security guards. The screaming increased, and Crowley delved beneath a table. Every gun within a ten kilometre radius jammed so thoroughly, it would take professional assistance to fix them. The screaming didn’t stop, though Crowley’s nervous tongue flicks soon found joyful, wild glee instead of surprised fear and the determination to kill something. 

Getting discorporated would _not_ be a good thing at the moment. At all.

Not like it’d be a good thing on a normal day, considering the queue to get a fresh body was centuries long and he didn’t have that kind of time with Aziraphale living human-length lives. This day, the day Armageddon was supposed to be set into motion, it would be even worse. He’d _never_ get a body. Not within a week. Not _ever_ if Hell lost the war.

The war he and Aziraphale had just spent eleven years attempting to prevent.

“Thaddeus!” someone shrieked, the squelching noise of moist cake being smashed into someone’s face making Crowley grimace as well as a snake could. What kind of name was _Thaddeus_? He slithered to the edge of the table, watching the enormous Dowling child pushing other children over and gleefully flinging his birthday cake into their faces.

Ah. Well, at least the nickname was better than Warlock.

Crowley watched the greasy Dowling boy treat his, er, friends like they were a plate designed to have food slopped onto them, time ticking away for a bit until he had to give in. Neither of these boys were the Antichrist.

The world was doomed.

\----

Damian wasn’t _mad_. He understood, actually. His dad had explained that bad people were possibly coming, so he was more worried than mad. His dad could be in danger. Damian didn’t even know when he’d left, nor did his papa.

Who... well... See, Damian wasn’t mad, but papa sure was.

His coat flipped around him each and every time he forgot himself and began to pace. The electricity in the flat was starting to buzz and flicker, wrecking his and his friends’ game. There was some kind of odd smell in the air that seemed concentrated around papa, too, something like a burnt wire or chlorine but weirdly sweet.[164] It was a worrying kind of smell, and not one he was used to around either of his parents.

He also wasn’t used to his papa going back and forth between his mobile and the landline, trying and failing to get dad to answer the phone. Dad _always_ answered.

Though papa was doing a good job at keeping himself in the kitchen when he wasn’t pacing in the hall, he still thoroughly distracted Damian from the board game his friends were playing. He threw his Clue cards down, face-up, and was honest enough in saying he wanted to ask his papa a question. It wasn’t really his fault that they all assumed the question was, “When are we going to eat cake?”

Wringing his hands in the way papa tended to when he was nervous, he made his way into the kitchen and sat at the table.[165] It had a handful of wrapped gifts and the cake papa had spent the morning baking and decorating. He didn’t look at them, though, attention focused as one parent tried yet again to reach the other.

“Anthony J. Crowley-Fell! If your answering machine is all I get _one more time_ , so help me, you will regret it. How _dare_ you run off in the middle of our child’s birthday party? Surely _work_ could have waited.” He paused, blowing a sharp breath into the receiver. Damian didn’t envy his dad getting that message, the disapproval and upset in it palpable. “If this is about the war...”

War? he wondered quietly, watching papa’s shoulders sag as his words trailed. 

“Come _home_ , Crowley. This isn’t something you should be handling on your own.” His ancient flip phone snapped shut and he sighed, freezing when he turned and saw Damian at the table. Damian froze too, not quite sure what to do. He’d never seen his papa’s eyes quite like this before. It was almost like going to Ms. Potts’s flat on Thursdays. They’d fill with something Damian couldn’t identify then too, but they’d never been quite this blue.

They softened as he took in Damian’s terrified posture. “Oh, duck,” he sighed, “how much of that did you hear?”

“All of it. You used his whole name.”

“Not the whole one,” he said quietly, “but the J stands for something a bit... ludicrous, and seemed to take away from-” He shook his head quickly, Damian aware enough to know that he was pulling his rambling habit under control. Usually dad could distract him with a little shushing motion or sound, usually with a smile filled with amused affection. “I’m so sorry, Damian. I have no idea where your dad has gone.”

“I know.”

“You _know_? Damian-”

“What war?”

That stopped papa short. Quiet, he looked away and wrung his hands a moment before coming closer. He joined Damian at the table, reaching out for and taking one of his hands in both of his. They had very different approaches to serious talks. Dad would dance around it, dance around Damian, say anything and everything he could to waste time and space, the point tacked in somewhere at the end. An utter mess of a man, as his papa would say with some affection.

Papa took his hand or made lots of eye contact or both, depending on the activity. “That’s a very difficult question for me to answer, duck. I’m afraid I don’t entirely know.”

It must’ve been part of the curse. But a war? That definitely sounded more like a fairytale than their reality. “Why are you mad at dad for trying to stop it?”

“Oh. Oh, no, that’s not- Oh, Damian... I would very much love for this war to be stopped. I would be _thrilled_.” Damian watched his eyes, fascinated by the way the blue in them dulled and brightened in waves. “Yes. I want to avert this war. Your dad just knows more about it than I do, which... I’m afraid you know how reckless he can be at times.”

“He’s the worst.”

Papa smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners and so affectionate it made Damian squirm in his seat. “He is that.”

He nodded quickly, papa relinquishing his hand without comment when he pulled it free. “So he ran off to stop the war neither of you want. Why are you mad at him?”

“For the exact same reason I would be furious with you were you to run off and get into something dangerous. He should know better than to go off and do something foolish alone.” Sighing, papa wrung his hands together for a moment before seeming to shake the worry off his shoulders. “Well. I suppose that’s neither here nor there. Hardly something for you to fret over on your birthday, isn’t it? We’ll just wait for your dad to come home. I’m sure he’ll be by shortly.”

“Okay. Everyone was asking when we were gonna have cake and all anyway. Should we wait for him?”

Papa took a deep, steady breath. Then he smiled and that odd brightness in his eyes seemed to fade. “No, of course not. We’ll have it right after your game is finished.”

Nodding, Damian wiggled out of the chair. “Thanks, papa.”

“Of course. And Damian?”

He paused in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“I love you very much.”

Damian huffed. He could be super embarrassing sometimes. “Love you too,” he returned anyway and sped off.

\----

No package was delivered to the flat. And no Bentley returned for far, _far_ too long. Crowley had, at the very least, finally picked up his phone to return one of Aziraphale’s dozens of calls. But it had been a short, clipped conversation on both ends, and Aziraphale wasn’t feeling very generous when the door opened and familiar footsteps made their way down the hall.

Crowley stopped in the doorway, and Aziraphale quietly closed his book. “Well. How good of you to return home, ah, seven hours after leaving.” Crowley had the decency to wince, but Aziraphale continued to gaze at him. He couldn’t recall a single time wherein he’d been this furious with his husband. Anger like that wasn’t the way either of them lived, and this was something hard and frozen. But the thing inside of him knew that they were vulnerable, that this day of all of them was the most vulnerable they could or would ever get.

Yet Crowley had _left_. He had left and become impossible to reach across an entire seven hour stretch. It was ten o’clock at night, for Heaven’s sake. Damian’s friends had left around five, leaving the two of them to worry in private for the better part of five hours. Damian had eventually brought him a book, climbing up into the armchair with him to be read to. A distraction for them both and, quite frankly, not at all the sort of way their child’s eleventh birthday should have been spent.

Both the thing churning in him and the rest of his mind was furious about that. War or no war.

“Damian’s asleep, if you care. It took quite a bit of effort to convince him to lay down seeing how neither he nor I had heard from you.”

“Angel-”

“How _dare_ you.”

Crowley’s shoulders hunched, lips pressed together as they stared at one another. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s a war. Of course it’s complicated.” Crowley sharp inhale had Aziraphale standing, his book discarded on the side table. “Do you think I’ve forgotten _anything_ about that night? That _man_ who told me war was coming in eleven years and _you_. Tasked with taking a child to a convent, which you _did_ only to bring him home the very next night. I have memories from a life I lived hundreds of years ago, Anthony J. Crowley. Do you honestly believe I would forget an unusual night from eleven years ago?”

Crowley jerked his shoulders. “Kinda hoped you would.”

“Well, how terrible of me to dash your hopes. I’ll pray for forgiveness.” The sarcasm cut sharp as a blade. 

“We can’t have this argument, Aziraphale. It’s not safe.” He turned around to head towards the kitchen and Aziraphale followed him, watching him pour himself a few fingers of scotch. He tossed them back like they were water and poured another.

Aziraphale smartly clicked a tumbler on the table beside his, brows arching pointedly when Crowley looked at him. But his husband sighed and poured him a glass regardless. “We are having this argument, Crowley. Whether you like it or not. I think I very much deserve an opportunity to know why exactly you left your own son’s birthday party without so much as a by your leave. We didn’t know where you’d gone or why. You could’ve been in very serious danger, Crowley, and we wouldn’t have known. _I_ wouldn’t have known, and I _need_ you. You _promised_ me-”

He stopped, the fuzzy memory one of the dangerous ones. There were so many dangerous memories across his lives, things he knew thinking on too deeply would lead to his ruin. Somehow or other, they would. “Regardless of any promises made in prior lives, in this one you’ve made quite a few.” He waved his left hand like an accusation, the golden curve of his ring as shiny as it had been the day it had been slipped onto his finger. “You owe me some sort of explanation and, so help me, if you lie to me...” He didn’t know what he’d do, but he knew it would be terrible. He held Crowley’s heart as much as Crowley held his, and it would be very easy to break it.

\----

Crowley didn’t want to admit to a single bit of this, though, fear heightened enough to catch in his throat and threaten to strangle him. He couldn’t tell him the truth. He couldn’t possibly divulge a single bit of this. It was too dangerous. He’d lose him.

“There was... There was a problem with the package.”

“Yes, I surmised that. Something so monumental that you had to leave us for seven hours without any warning?”

Aziraphale’s frosty tone left no room for real argument. Sighing, Crowley sank into a chair and his husband sat primly across from him. He nursed his scotch and Crowley tipped back half of his glass. “Do you remember Bee?” he asked.

Aziraphale slowly, too slowly, set down his glass. It clinked delicately against the table, but Crowley still flinched like he’d thrown it. “Crowley... no.”

He knew it wasn’t an answer to the question. Or it _was_ , but wasn’t. It meant Aziraphale remembered that long ago encounter, but also had a feeling he knew what was coming next. Crowley took a deep, shuddering breath before saying the only honest thing he’d probably say in the next few minutes. “I work for them.”

Aziraphale shot out of his chair, faster than he should be able to, and just stared at him. “For how long?”

Crowley wet his lips. Two honest things, then. “The whole time.”

When Aziraphale walked away, Crowley didn’t follow. It was one of the few things that didn’t exist between them, lies.[166] Crowley couldn’t lie to him when he was already lying about so much. He couldn’t tell him things, couldn’t use the full words when he did get glimpses of the angel underneath. He’d gotten so used to it over the years. How long now? They’d met again in October of ‘84 - _19_ 84, for fuck’s sake. When had he started shortening years? There’d been hundreds of 84s. He kicked back and drained the rest of his scotch in one go, then refilled the glass a third time. Two fingers, three, four, right up to the tippy top of the glass and he growled at it, _daring_ a single drop to spill. Then he drained that too.

It wasn’t right. He’d spent the last seven hours going over everything he had at his disposable. Every memo from Hell about the Antichrist job miracled from his safe into the Bentley, including the written instructions he’d jotted down. Just paraphrased from what had been inserted into his mind. Every step of the plan was there and, reading it, it seemed flawless. Rather good organization, even. It should’ve _worked_.

Two babies, yet neither of them were the Antichrist. He’d felt, at some point in his feverish studies, a shift in the world. The Hellhound had found its master and received its name, its _purpose_. And so they were doomed.

Aziraphale had wanted to spend _one_ life knowing what it was like to be loved, and he’d fucked it up. He’d turned it into Aziraphale’s last. They only had six days before... 

Damian would die.

Crowley smacked his glass down, the tumbler not daring to shatter or spill a single drop. If he couldn’t get it together, pull some trick from somewhere, their not-Antichrist would die. The kid they’d been raising for eleven years may not have been the powerful force Crowley had assumed, but he was still - Well, Crowley still _loved_ him. He was still theirs.

He rose quickly and followed Aziraphale down the hall, back towards the living room. “ _Angel_ -”

“I do not particularly wish to speak with you at the moment, Crowley. Excuse me.”

He grabbed his wrist before he could pick up his book again, looking into eyes that had gone a stormcloud gray with all their fury. “Please just listen to me.”

“I do _not_ -”

“Damian could die.” Three honest things.

Aziraphale stilled.

“Please,” he whispered. _Let me fix it. Let me make it up to you. We’ve only got six days left, and I need you to know how much I love both of you._ “Please listen to me.”

“What...” Aziraphale wetted his lips, stared at him and, as much as Crowley wished for blue eyes to fill with knowledge, he didn’t know that it would help. He highly fucking doubted it would help _at all_ , actually. He wouldn’t be able to use the words. Armageddon and _war_ and Heaven and bloody fucking Hell would shoot him straight Upstairs, and then what? He’d meet his husband on the fucking battlefield?

He almost laughed or at least must’ve looked properly insane because Aziraphale finally softened, finally reached out and took his hand with a gentle squeeze. “What’s happened, then?”

Seemed like he was going to say even more honest things then. “I fucked up a job, and a lot of people are going to die if I don’t fix it by Saturday.” Four and five. “And I need your help, angel.” Six.

“Me?”

“Always.” Seven and, unfortunately, eight. “Damian’s not the right kid.”

\----

In his room, back to the door and knees pressed to his chest, Damian frowned. Not the right kid for what?

* * *

* * *

### Footnotes

162. This is very much a lie. It’s insufferable and Crowley enjoys every single second of the secondhand embarrassment it brings him.↩

163. In a manner of speaking.↩

164. Folks who aren’t newly eleven may describe it as the scent of ozone.↩

165. It had once been a table for two, but a third chair for the set had been miraculously found one day. And maybe the table itself had gotten a smidge bigger. Maybe it had always been that way. Only Crowley really knows.↩

166. ↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at [Syl-Writes-Stuff](https://syl-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/) and my lovely beta at [skimmingmilk](https://skimmingmilk.tumblr.com/).


	21. Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just how many babies were there at that convent, and what to do about Damian?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thank you, as usual, to [SkimmingTheSurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface) for her beta work.
> 
> Our [chapter song](https://open.spotify.com/track/3LlAyCYU26dvFZBDUIMb7a?si=ZcPgAdQNSVSm5o1glmjMkg) this week, lol.

_Why we dare to assume a physical form and brave a world such as ours,  
_ _so full of tragedy and fear and pain,  
_ _murders and rapes,  
_ _war,  
_ _ceaseless brutality and conflict.  
_ _We wouldn’t subject ourselves to this unless it was worth it,  
_ _on some level._

― Thomas Pierce

* * *

**_Wednesday  
_** **_4 Days Until the End of the World  
_ ** **_Mayfair, London_ **

Aziraphale’s mind was reeling, something in him pulled taut. His instincts were just as frazzled, none of him knowing quite what to say here. Not the right child? Of course he was the... He must’ve been, surely. “Crowley... You were only given one boy.”

“I _know_.”

“You took him to the convent.”

“Yesss.”

“And then you went back the very next night and took him back. You brought him home. How on _Earth_ could you have possibly picked up the wrong child? And what the _Hell_ does that have to do with that... that awful Bee person?”

It had been years since that single meeting, but it was etched clearly in Aziraphale’s mind. It had been so tense, so uncomfortable. His love had looked so very nervous, so utterly terrified standing just behind that tiny, dangerous presence. Aziraphale couldn’t fathom why Crowley would be working for them, why he always had been, and _how_.

Worst of all, there was that instinctive part of him which had always known and _accepted_ this. He shouldn’t be accepting of a lie that was thirty-five years old. He should be furious and righteously so, but it was all so frustratingly surface level. He’d been more angry at him for vanishing from Damian’s party and upsetting their son than he was about this. 

“They gave me the kid. Well- Well, not _they_ them. But two of their lackeys.”

Aziraphale went very pale. “I beg your pardon.”

Crowley ran his hands through his hair, briefly pressing his lips together. “We should sit.”

That, Aziraphale didn’t argue about. Nor did he argue when Crowley went to grab the decanter of scotch. He brought them and their glasses to the living room, the two of them sinking onto the couch while Aziraphale’s mind reeled. His hands were surprisingly steady around the tumbler, amber liquid swirling smoothly before he took a careful sip. “Explain.”

“These two idiots, Hastur and Ligur, handed me the baby and told me to take him to the convent. Not so he could be adopted, but so he could be... ngk. Used.” Crowley stared at his scotch, rolling the glass between his palms. “There was an, er, arrangement to get the wife of an American diplomat to give birth at a hospital filled with our agents.”

“Your agents,” he replied dully, sure he was mishearing. It sounded like some dramatic comedy on the television. One of those, ah, multiple-parters. Or a lengthy, beloved book. Or even a radio drama.[167] “Crowley-”

“I’m _serious_. It was a small place, so it should’ve been easy. It _was_ easy. I went in, I left the boy, and I came home.”

“But you went back...”

“I couldn’t leave him, I told you. I had to... Well, I had to swap them back. I didn’t know what they were going to do with the Americans’ actual kid, and I didn’t want ours to be used by them, dove. By _anyone_. I wanted things to be alright, to keep going.”

Aziraphale shook his head. He knew some of that. He understood, and he’d long-since forgiven Crowley for the ludicrousness of the decision. Had he known Crowley had been _rescuing_ a child, well... Well. “I don’t understand how that could possibly make Damian the incorrect child, Crowley. If you successfully made the switch-”

“I _did_.”

“-then it stands to reason that Damian is, ah, correct.”

“He _isn’t_.”

“How do you-”

“The package!” Crowley threw off his sunglasses, gaze intense when it met Aziraphale’s. He sucked in a sharp breath, grip tightening on his scotch. There was something, he knew, that he was missing. Something his mind was circling, too afraid to reach out and pluck out the correct words. Aziraphale knew better than to push for them. “It’s... Well, it’s _linked_ to the boy. I can’t explain how in a way that would make any sense to you at all, but it can only go to the correct boy. It was supposed to happen at three o’clock today, and it _did_. I got the call. And I got the- the confirmation that it arrived, but it’s not here and it’s _not_ with the Americans.”

“Is that where you went?”

He made a few helpless sounds, words caught in his throat as he nodded. “I thought I could... intercept it. Because if it’s stopped...”

“What _is_ it, Crowley?”

“A... a weapon. Sort of a... a biological weapon.” Crowley knocked back half his scotch. “It’s a dog.”

That was ludicrous. Insanity. Aziraphale’s mouth opened and closed twice because he wanted to call Crowley a liar and tell him he’d had more than enough antics for the day. He wanted to say those things, but they got stuck in his throat. A dog. A... a _hound_. He knew it with certainty even while he was terrified by the implication. His gaze darted down the hall only to return just as quickly to eyes as amber as their drink, but so earnest and beloved and... frightened. He was more frightened now than Aziraphale had ever seen him in any life. Of that, he was very certain.

“So... So the right boy... The right boy has this dog. What now?”

“In three days, it’ll... Well, it was meant to be with the Americans. An American diplomat, and Bee’s people still think that’s where he is. They’ve got no idea I went back and got him. Except, y’know, there’s paperwork.” That he’d never officially filed because he hadn’t technically needed to. The boy, in any registrars, simply didn’t exist. He was the Antichrist. He was _supposed_ to have been the Antichrist. What there _was_ , however, was a single nun who’d seen him leave. He should’ve really gone back and erased her memory of him. “Anyway, it was designed that after a few days - so on Saturday - something in it would, ah, activate. It’ll kill people and start a war. It’s going to be on a global scale, Aziraphale, and the goal is total destruction.”

They had three days to avert a war. Aziraphale followed suit, draining half his glass. “Well. Welcome to the end times,” he said, feeling the words were far more true than he wanted them to be. “Then we, ah, need to track them down. The dog. And to do that we need to track down the correct child.”

“Angel, how the _Heaven_ are we supposed to do that?”

Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure. He rose and began to pace, mumbling under his breath as he snapped up his spectacles. He didn’t actually need them, the lenses nothing but clear glass, but they’d been a cheeky gift from Crowley one year[168] and he thought they were rather neat. He pulled them on now, hooking them behind his ears as he grabbed a notebook off of a shelf and carried it over to his favourite armchair. He dropped down into it and started to write.

Everything he knew, everything he didn’t know - they went into two neat columns whilst Crowley watched him silently with a fresh drink in hand. Though he’d barely written two things down before he spoke. “There was obviously a third child.”

Crowley opened his mouth, shut it again, and leaned back with a blink.[169] “A third... A third kid. _How_ could that get so bloody mixed up? I only took _one day_.”[170]

“It’s the only logical explanation, Crowley. Now we know his age. His birthday.” Aziraphale nodded to himself. “He’s eleven.”

“You make it sound easy,” Crowley groused.

“Well, it can’t be that hard.” Aziraphale tapped his pen to the page and scribbled something else down. “We only, ah, have to find his birth records. Go through the... hospital files,” he suggested.

“ _We_?”

“You said you wanted my help.”

“I said I _need_ your help. It’s different. And that was all the helping I needed. I’ll pop over to the convent now and-”

“You are _not_ going anywhere. Not on your own. Besides, a convent would be closed at this time of night. You aren’t going to bother nuns. We’ll take Damian to Tracy in the morning. I’m quite sure she won’t have any appointments,” he said with certainty. The sort of certainty that usually got him exactly what he wanted. 

\----

**_Thursday  
_** **_3 Days Until the End of the World  
_ ** **_Mayfair, London_ **

Damian was less cooperative that morning than either parent wanted him to be. Aziraphale nearly rose his voice, for Hell’s sake. Crowley slunk into his room to find the newly minted eleven-year-old resolutely in his pyjamas and sitting in the middle of his bed. “Y’know, when you were a baby, I could pick you up, throw you in clothes, and haul you about wherever I wanted. I still can.” He mimed a snap, but couldn’t actually make himself go through with the miracle.

When Damian hugged his knees to his chest and looked away, Crowley sighed gustily and crossed to drop onto the edge of the bed. “Is this because I left yesterday?”

“No. You’re trying to stop the war.”

“How do you know-”

“I heard papa leave you a message. I didn’t know the bad people were trying to start a whole _war_.”

Crowley scrubbed his hands over his face. The difficulties in being an excellent liar lay in keeping all those threads straight. He had to remember exactly what he’d told Damian and when and how those things fit into what Aziraphale knew and had been told. “Listen-”

“If you find the right kid, are you going to give me back?”

His hands fell away from his face immediately. “Wot.”

“You were in the living room and you weren’t quiet.”

“You were supposed to be _asssleep_ ,” he hissed, unwilling to admit that he was a little impressed by the sneakiness. His kid. Even though he was drawing very wrong conclusions. He’d blame that one on Aziraphale. “But... But no. You’re _ours_. We’re not tossing you away. We’re not going to _trade_ you.”

“We would never!” Aziraphale agreed from the doorway, gathering both Crowley and Damian’s attention. He stepped further into the room, but didn’t sit on the bed. He watched them and Crowley watched the angel surface, those eyes bright and so determined. “We _love_ you. There is no _right_ or _wrong_ child in regards to who is in this flat. You are ours, and we’re going to do everything in our power to protect you.”

Damian looked at Crowley, who sighed and opened his arms. “Everything,” he promised, relieved when the kid scrambled across the bed to accept the offered hug. “We need you to go to Tracy’s. No one knows about her,” he murmured into dark hair, Damian nodding in understanding. “We’ll come get you as soon as we’re done.”

“With luck, we’ll have the war averted by teatime,” Aziraphale cheerfully assured him, Crowley letting Damian go so he could get a very angelic hug. He met Aziraphale’s gaze over the boy’s head, the pair of them nodding nearly imperceptibly at one another. The stakes were high, and their priorities were aligned. Even at a disadvantage as they were with Aziraphale’s mind crippled by whatever the fuck Heaven had done to him, he was a clever being. He was a clever angel. 

They _could_ manage this. They had three days to manage this.

\----

Damian tugged on his sleeve as they drew nearer to Tracy’s flat and Aziraphale glanced down, slowing in the hall. “Dove?” Crowley asked.

“Go on, dearest. We’ll catch up,” he promised.

Crowley looked between them, though Aziraphale didn’t understand the warning look Crowley pierced Damian with or the way their son nodded. At least someone knew, he supposed. “What is it, duck?”

Damian folded his arms and leaned in a way that made Aziraphale ache deep in his heart. He'd seen Crowley lean and fold just like that more times than were worth counting. “Are you going to be okay?” 

“What do you mean?”

He swiped a hand beneath his nose, that gesture all Damian and just as aching. The way this dear child had picked up so many of his and Crowley’s habits, yet still retained so much of his own spark was as humbling as it was endearing. “Are you going to be okay? Does dad work for the bad guys?”

Aziraphale searched that earnest gaze carefully, the instincts writhing in him uncomfortable with the question. Even they didn’t know how exactly to explain things. And, though Aziraphale had not held a job in this life beyond reluctant bookseller, that same instinct wanted to say that they _both_ worked for the bad guys. The man in the pale suit who had known his name and interrupted his sushi eleven years earlier still weighed heavily on his mind in times like this. “I don’t... entirely think it’s so cut and dried as all that, Damian. I believe there are many shades of grey in this that you and I don’t see. I think your dad does, however, and he’s juggling too many things all on his own.”

Crouching down carefully, Aziraphale took the boy’s hands in his own and held his gaze. “I can tell you that the people he works for are unkind. I can tell you that your dad does not like them at all and I’m quite sure that if he _could_ get away, he would without any hesitation. So don’t be angry with him or disappointed. He’s worked too hard for us for doubt to come between us all now.”

“Even though you were mad at him yesterday?”

“Yes. I’m still hurt, and I understand if you are as well. You’re entitled to those feelings, duck, and I know your dad would understand too.”

Damian considered that for a few seconds before sighing. “Okay. I just don’t want dad to be a... To be one of the bad guys.”

Aziraphale tucked a lock of hair behind his ear, smile soft and fond. “I think, even if he tried his hardest, he never could be.” None of him was uncertain about that. Everything Crowley had ever done for either of them was done from a deep well of caring. He rose, offering his hand. Damian didn’t always take it anymore, coming into an age where being “cool” was more important than being affectionate. Or whatever it was that somehow made holding hands with a parent embarrassing.

Swaying a little, Damian slipped his hand into Aziraphale’s and let himself get guided to his babysitter’s. 

\----

Tracy’s blonde wig was a personal favourite. She rather liked the youthful look of the two pigtails swinging about. It was a shame her day had been called to an unexpected halt that morning when she’d received several phone calls, all cancelling their appointments. Discerning gentlemen being a bit more discerning than usual, it would seem, but she kept that quiet while Crowley talked.

If ever a man needed some strict discipline, it was this knotted up fellow. A darling to be sure, but he never quite seemed to relax unless he was perched next to Aziraphale, one of his husband’s hands on his thigh. They probably had quite the time in the bedroom, though she knew better than to mention it. Poor Aziraphale was likely to go up in embarrassed flames and Crowley just tended to smile like a cat. Or a snake, though she blamed his tattoo alone for that comparison.

Certainly two wonderful men and darling fathers and partners, but so very odd. She adored them and their son. “Should just be for a few hours,” Crowley assured her, glancing down the hall to where the rest of his little family were having a private conference. “Aziraphale and I’ve got some... stuff to do.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” she purred, just to finally get a grin out of him. It worked easily enough, though there was still tension in his shoulders. She’d offer a massage - and had in the past to an amused refusal - but Aziraphale finally made it to her door with Damian’s hand clasped in his own. She smiled down at him. “Hello, dear.”

His smile was as strained as Crowley’s. Heavens, what had happened to these three? “Hi, Ms. Potts.”

“Come on in,” she offered, smile warming in an attempt to soothe. “Crowley said you had some things on your plate, but I thought a nice cup of tea-” A buzzer sounded off to the side of her door, opposite of the stairs, and Tracy’s lashes fluttered. “Well, isn’t that odd. All of my appointments were cancelled today. They all paid anyway, though, which was a relief.”

Both Aziraphale and Crowley had worked very hard to assure Damian that she was a psychic and nothing more over the years, so Aziraphale arching his brows at her in gentle reminder only made her wave a hand. “Right, yes. I can’t help the walk-ins, dearie. But let me get the door. I’ll shoo them right along.”

Aziraphale nodded, letting go of Damian’s hand to nudge him into the flat. “Of course. I’m afraid Crowley and I do have quite the drive ahead of us, Tracy, so we won’t be able to stay for tea. I know how rude that is when you’ve agreed to watch Damian on such short notice, but-”

“Don’t you worry about that, Mr. Aziraphale. You know I love him.” She patted his cheek. “I’ll be right back,” she promised when the buzzer sounded again.

She made her way down the stairs and the hall quickly, cracking open the door and fully expecting there to be a haggard older man with either a loaded briefcase and stress or one with a drug problem. Either way, they’d have a need to be punished and she would be obligated to shoo them away.

Instead, the young man seemed startled by her very presence. A knapsack slung across his chest, hands buried in his pockets, and rather unappealingly shaped glasses, he looked entirely unlike any of her clientele. Sadness and nervous energy hung around him, though, so perhaps he was the other type of clientele she serviced.

“Um. Hello,” he greeted after taking half a step back. “I’m here about the advert? In the paper?”

“Well, Madame Tracy draws aside the veil every afternoon except Thursdays.”

“I think there must be another advert.”

“Oh, right.” Perhaps the little twink had a sub kink? Oh, she hoped not. It took so long to squeeze into the leather pinny and she really didn’t have time that day. “Unfortunately, I’m not available today. But if you’d like to set up an appointment, I’m happy to take down your details.”

“A-an appointment?”

“Mmhm. Now, I don’t do anything kinky except by prior arrangement and my knees... aren’t what they were. Also, if it’s strict discipline you’ll be wanting, you’d better tell me now because it can take me half an hour to squeeze into the leather pinny. I like to be prepared.”

His eyes were round and wide behind those thick lenses. “I’m sorry?” he breathed, looking quite terrified indeed.

And Tracy had not gotten so far in her life without being able to tell when a man was or was not interested in her services. “Are you not here for intimate personal relaxation and stress relief for the discerning gentleman?”

He shook his head helplessly, clinging to his satchel strap. “N-no. I’m here to join the Witchfinder Army.”

“Oh!” Well, that explained everything! She reached out and beckoned him in, opening the door a bit wider for him. “Mr. Shadwell said he was expecting a visitor.” She guided him towards the stairs with a bright smile. “I’ve got a few visitors myself today. If you’re going to be around a bit, you’ll see them about so best to introduce you now. I take care of their son now and again.”

“O-oh. Um. Alright.”

She waved at Aziraphale and Crowley as they drew closer, cheerful as could be. It would be lovely for Mr. S to finally have some company besides her. A nice young person would certainly help him calm down. “Coo-ee. Sorry that took a minute. He’s here for Mr. S.”

Crowley’s lip curled as he eyed the poor lad, noticeable by his head tilt even with the sunglasses on. “Why?”

“Um.”

“Don’t let my husband make you nervous,” Aziraphale put in, all sunshine and brightness as he ever was. Before she’d known him, No. 473 hadn’t been in the best state of repair. Honestly, it had been a bit drab and dingy, but over the years he’d had several talking-tos with the landlords and things had perked up quite a bit. Her heat and air worked perfectly year-round and everything! “Are you here to join Sergeant Shadwell’s, ah, little group?”

“The- The Witchfinder Army, yes.”

Aziraphale’s smile went indulgent, Crowley’s lips curving into something wickedly amused, and Damian squeezed between them. “Are you going to be here all day?”

“Uh. Er. Yes?”

“I think it’s lovely. It’s just been him for so long.” Tracy smiled and rapped on Mr. S’s door, unsurprised when it swung open almost immediately. Incurably nosy, Mr. Shadwell was. She thought it was endearing.

“Aye?” he demanded, looking her up and down. If he was surprised not to see her in something silky and coquettish, it was only noticeable by the pinch of his brow. She’d long ago learned how to read Sergeant Shadwell. He very truly meant well, but he went about things like a regular bull in a china shop.

“It’s your new recruit, Mr. Shadwell. Look!”

“Away wi’ ye, harlot.”

“Sergeant,” Crowley interrupted, smooth as butter,[171] “that’s not how we’re supposed to be talking around my son.” Mr. Shadwell stiffened, poor thing, but Tracy only smiled indulgently at him.

“Oh, it’s alright. I’ll bring them both tea.” She beamed at the young man. “Milk and sugar, dear?”

“He’s in the army now, Jezebel. He’ll make ‘is own tea!” Shadwell protested.

Aziraphale and Crowley both side-stepped to let her into her flat and a glance down at Damian showed he was much more enthused than he had been. His smile was much brighter, curious gaze all over Mr. S’s new recruit. How exciting.

\----

Crowley ignored the way Aziraphale pinched his side, a silent plea for him to behave himself. It was always just _fun_ to play with Shadwell. He knew the man didn't have a bloody army, and he was fairly sure that Shadwell _knew_ he knew. But he still paid the man. He clearly didn't have any other means of supporting himself and, well, Damian thought he was funny. As he grew older, he'd come home with this and that story about the sergeant after a day with Tracy. It was fine and harmless to shuffle him some pounds every month. Wasn't as if he didn't have unlimited funds.

Actually having a recruit was different. A genuinely good person of a recruit, which was obvious enough. It was easy to spot the truly good ones. They were usually the most tempting people to convert for a demon and usually the ones Crowley left alone. 

Aziraphale, he knew, could also recognise genuine goodness. He rarely left them alone. “And what's your name, young man?” 

“Ah. Er. Newton. Newt. Newton Pulsifer.”

Awkward do-gooders were _exceptionally_ low on Crowley’s to-do list. “Come on, angel. We need to get going.”

“Oh, I know. I...” He looked back at Tracy's flat, hands wringing together. 

“I'll tell her you said bye,” Damian offered. 

Crowley reached out to tousle his hair, surprised and sorry when he limply reached for a hug. Hugs, like hand-holding, weren't the cool things to do anymore. Crowley still crouched down and reached out, pulling him in. “Don't start fretting. I can only handle one person doing that.”

“M'not _fretting_ ,” he denied in the same way Crowley usually did, though he liked to think Damian threw more pout into it.[172]

“Right. Well-” His phone rang. The ringer was off, but the sound came through anyway and it wasn't unlike a chainsaw buzzing across violin strings. “See you later, Damian. Need to take that. See you outside, angel.” He gave Damian a final, tight squeeze before breaking away and sending half a wave Shadwell and Newt's way, phone at his ear to cut that blasted ringtone right off. “Yeah?” 

“Morning, Crowley,” Hastur croaked. 

“Just checking in,” Ligur explained, a snarl in his tone. “You weren't home.”

Crowley swallowed, not liking the idea that they'd appear on his television when they'd arranged otherwise years before. With Armageddon only a few short days away, maybe the game had changed. Not what he wanted to hear. “Hey, guys.”

“It’s about the Antichrist,” Ligur growled while Crowley started down the stairs. 

“Yeah. Great kid.” Crowley hoped. Wherever he was. “Takes after his dad.” Crowley hoped otherwise. Wherever he was.

Hastur continued as if he hadn't spoken, “Our operatives in the State Department have arranged for the child’s family to be flown to the Middle East.”

“There, he and the Hellhound will be taken to the Valley of Megiddo.” Crowley wished he could be even a fraction as excited as Ligur sounded, if only so he wouldn't be in this situation. Him, his angel, or their son. 

Hastur sounded just as eager, as gleeful as Crowley had ever heard him. “The Four Horseman will begin their final ride.”

Crowley limply raised a fist. “Yay.”

“Armageddon will begin. The final combat. It’s what we’ve been working towards since we rebelled.” There was a message in this message, the undertones a sharp threat that made Crowley’s heart stutter. Not for himself, but for what he had to lose. “We are the Fallen,” Hastur reminded him, low and growling. “Never forget that.”

Crowley looked back, seeing his husband standing on the steps behind him. He looked up at his angel as he had in 1941, the feather in his breast pocket pulsing like a heartbeat. He knew he was a demon, and he knew Aziraphale was an angel. “Well, it’s not the sort of thing you forget,” he said to Hastur, incredulous. 

Hastur seemed to be simmering, a pot of boiling rage barely keeping its lid on. “I don’t trust you, Crowley.”

Smartest thing Hastur had ever said. “Everything’s going just fine,” he replied and hung up. He hadn’t meant to Fall. He'd just hung around the wrong people. But if Falling was what it had taken to have this angel in his life... 

“To Oxfordshire?” Aziraphale asked, taking the last few steps down to meet him. 

Crowley pocketed his phone and held out his hand, lacing their fingers when Aziraphale automatically took it. “To St. Beryl's.”

* * *

* * *

### Footnotes

167. ↩

168. “Anyone who reads as much as you needs reading glasses, dove.”↩

169. He was recalling a man. One with a pipe and a cardigan and nerves he hadn’t seen since Joseph. Mostly because he hadn’t paid attention to any expectant fathers in the millennia since.↩

170. And now he’s recalling a dotty nun. A Satanist who made other Satanists look rather clever. And he’d given _her_ the bloody basket.↩

171. Mind you, this is Tracy’s opinion. We all know Crowley’s smooth as crunchy peanut butter.↩

172. They were very equally pouty and Crowley is in denial.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at [Syl-Writes-Stuff](https://syl-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/) and my lovely beta at [skimmingmilk](https://skimmingmilk.tumblr.com/).


	22. Bicycle Race

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A former nun is questioned, and a current witch is healed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thank you, as usual, to [SkimmingTheSurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface) for her beta work.
> 
> [Our chapter song]()
> 
> Welcome to me finally being able to use some book dialogue :D

_Learn from yesterday,  
_ _live for today,  
_ _hope for tomorrow.  
_ _The important thing is not to stop questioning._

― Albert Einstein

* * *

 **_Thursday  
_ ** **_3 Days Until the End of the World  
_ ** **_Oxfordshire_ **

“Were all of your jobs lies?” 

The fact that Aziraphale asked that instead of “Why are you going ninety miles per hour?” said quite a lot. Enough that Crowley pressed his lips together and pushed the accelerator down even further. 

“The magazine and the photography and the lecturing and-” 

“Not completely,” Crowley interrupted. “You wanted to buy the magazine, so I did get an actual writing job. That was real. I did take photos of people, so that was. And you _went_ to some of the bloody lectures. You helped me practice them.” There'd been more half-jobs besides, things to excuse his absences. The meetings Hell required. “I just... also did side things. Not every meeting was, y'know, with... who I told you.”

“That's a very long time to tell a great deal of lies, Crowley.”

He didn't sound _angry_ , which was the confusing bit. Crowley didn't know if this was an argument or not, so he kept his tone as even as he could beneath the desperation. “I was keeping you _safe_. You and now Damian.”

Aziraphale turned to look out the window, the trees rushing by. Autumn hadn’t even properly begun, but the trees were beginning to turn. Life was cycling along, Crowley thought, even though it could very well end soon. The world was oblivious to its own destruction. Only him and, in the vaguest of terms, the being beside him knew what was at stake. 

“Well. This is the Tadfield area. Does it look familiar yet?”

“You know, it does,” he replied, peering out the windscreen. It had been darkly misty one night and darkly raining the next, so it was rather different in the middle of the afternoon. But he’d made the trip twice. Some of the curves on the road felt familiar, though there wasn’t a basket in the Bentley. “I think there’s an air base around here somewhere.”

Aziraphale’s brow knitted together. “Air base?”

“Well, you don’t think American diplomats’ wives usually give birth in little religious hospitals in the middle of nowhere, do you? No, it all had to seem to happen naturally. So there’s an air base at Lower Tadfield. Things started to happen, base hospital isn’t ready. ‘Oh,’ our man there said, ‘there’s a birthing hospital just down the road.’ And there we were. Rather good organisation.”

“Flawless,” he said, sarcasm dripping like poison.

Crowley almost winced. “It should’ve worked.”

“Oh. Should it have?” Instead of sarcasm, there was quite a bit of calm cheer.

Crowley winced. “Not- Not _their_ version of the plan. It should’ve been simple. It _was_ simple. I don’t know how a third baby got tangled into all this.”

“Perhaps it’s ineffable,” Aziraphale sighed, looking back to the window and missing the sharp way Crowley turned his head to look at him. _Ineffable_. “Do you want to know why Damian stopped me? Before we dropped him off?”

Fingers fidgeting over the wheel, Crowley gazed out of the windscreen and choked out something that sounded like an agreement. 

“He wanted to know if you were working for the bad guys.”

His chest tightened, heart seizing painfully. He _did_ work for the bad guys. The evil side. The _proudly_ evil side. “S’pose... s’pose mine is the side that was going around swapping babies.”

“Yes, but there are two sides to every war.”[173] He said it so quietly, too quietly. Crowley reached out and took his hand, relieved when it didn’t stay limp. When it clasped around his. Firm and warm and trusting. “I told Damian that you worked for terrible people, but that it doesn’t matter. You’re so far removed from terrible, darling. Mischievous and a bit wicked, yes, but I have always loved that about you. I also very much love your heart, that impulsive thing that couldn’t leave a baby at a convent and just had to bring him home. Mix-up or not, I’m still very proud of you for trying to do the right thing.”

“Angel...”

“You’ve slowed, dearest. Come now. Heaven only knows how many files there will be to sort in a birthing hospital, particularly going back eleven years.”

Heaven didn’t have a single thing to do with this particular convent. Crowley glanced at the speedometer instead of mentioning that. Eighty looked back, so he leaned on the accelerator again and, even though Aziraphale threw a hand up to press it to the roof, he didn’t complain about the speed.

\----

The lawn wasn’t what Aziraphale would call immaculate, but he didn’t tread over it like Crowley did. He walked along the gravel, gazing out at the building ahead whilst tension rose high in his chest. It certainly didn’t look like a convent or a hospital, the bricked entryway unusually charred. As if there had been a fire there. Besides, Crowley had called the place St. Beryl’s, and the sign now said _Tadfield Manor_.

“Um, are you _sure_ this is the right place? This-” He looked behind him as if the outer buildings and scenery would be any better. Parts of the roof appeared newer than the rest, and Aziraphale was truly beginning to worry. “This doesn’t look like a hospital. And-”

He stopped abruptly, one hand flying out to smack against Crowley’s arm and his other landing on his own belly. He groped up to his own heart, pressing firmly as warmth washed over him. Cascading waves that felt so familiar, yet so unique to this specific place. He laughed softly, well aware that Crowley was staring at him now. Worried but curious. “Well... I-it feels like home.”

Crowley looked around, but let Aziraphale take his hand. “No, it’s definitely the place. The cars aren’t exactly _nun_ cars, though.”

Aziraphale may not have known the first thing about vehicles, but he did recognize newness. Every vehicle seemed to have initials or fancy words like _Turbo_ written on them, so he was sure they were rather, ah, fancy.

“Maybe they’ve gone private,” Crowley continued, giving his hand a squeeze. “What d’you mean, it feels like home?”

“It feels loved, dearest. This whole area is just _bursting_ with... I suppose that sounds ridiculous.”

Crowley smiled at him, soft and indulgent. There was another burst of that feeling, but that one was very familiar. “Nah. Let’s go talk to some nuns.”

As they walked through the archway, they were shot with incredible accuracy. Aziraphale jumped sharply, trying hard to see what had struck his shoulder blade and terribly worried over his coat. He was only partly aware of Crowley, staggering back and throwing a hand to his own chest.

Until he said, “Oh, it’s paint.”

“Hey!” someone shouted, approaching them in a dark brown one piece. He had a helmet, a red bandana around one arm, and a gun. Aziraphale stopped trying to see his back to stare at him. “You’ve both been hit!” He scoffed. “I don’t know what you think you’re playing at right-”

Crowley surged forward, and Aziraphale only sighed. He struggled with his coat, tugging at the sleeves in his haste to get it off, and completely ignored the man now lying on the ground in favour of lamenting the state of one of his favourite clothing items. There was a wretched blue splotch of paint on the back of camel-coloured fabric, and he was distraught. “Crowley, look at the state of this coat! I’ve kept this in tip-top condition since you gave it to me. Now I’ll _never_ get this stain out.”

Crowley hovered over it for a moment before sighing, and gathering it up, slinging it over one arm. “There’s bound to be a bathroom in there. I’ll take care of it.”

“Oh, would you?”

“Need to get all this shite off me anyway.”

“Oh...” Aziraphale’s brows drew together, able to see the red paint wasn’t only on Crowley’s clothes. There was splatter on his collarbone, but at least the red wouldn’t stain permanently. “Does it hurt?”

“M’fine. Come on, angel.”

He eagerly followed Crowley inside, the pair of them keeping an eye out for anymore wielders of paint-spitting firearms. The last thing Aziraphale needed was _more_ damage to his clothes. The horror if something touched his favourite waistcoat wasn’t worth thinking about. He’d throw one of Crowley’s fits.

“What do you think they’re playing at? Shooting paint at unsuspecting persons.”

“Dunno, but I think it’s called silly buggers,” he replied in a tone that suggested he could play too, and beat them at it.

Aziraphale sighed, all fondness, and tucked his arm around Crowley’s free one as they walked inside. They walked by a sign that read _Tadfield Manor, Conference and Management Training Centre: A Place to Intergrate and Expand_. “‘Combat initiative course?’” Aziraphale murmured, looking at all the weapons beyond the little window the sign was hung next to.

“No idea, but there’s the toilet.” They disentangled so Crowley could step in, and Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back as he waited, looking around. It was most definitely _not_ a birthing hospital, not with so many warning posters about combat poses and ways to fight and... Well, it was all a bit much, wasn’t it? 

He took a pamphlet from a rack on the wall, flipping through it with a furrowed brow, until a young lady jogged by. She was in camouflage, but also had the red bandana around her arm. The combat initiative course did not, it would seem, have a consistent uniform.

“Oh, Millie from Accounts caught me on the elbow! Who’s winning?”

“You’re all going to lose,” Crowley said from behind him. Aziraphale heard him snap and only sighed,[174] the woman giving him quite the perplexed look before continuing her jog down the hall.

The guns sounded a bit more vicious,[175] but Aziraphale had his priorities and they were settled firmly on- “My coat!” It was perfectly clean, as if there’d never been paint there at all. “Oh,” he sighed, “thank you, sweet.”

“Shut up,” Crowley complained, but helped Aziraphale into it and didn’t argue when he bobbed up to kiss his husband’s cheek. “What’s that?”

“A pamphlet.” Aziraphale offered it, hands clasping behind his back whilst they started down the hall.

Crowley flipped through it, grumbling under his breath, and Aziraphale was quick to take it from him before he could just toss it to the floor when it held no information on how a convent had turned into a training centre. He disposed of it properly, sighing over the crude way Crowley kicked in doors. Did he enjoy the casual display of brute strength? Absolutely. Was it appropriate in a convent, even a former one? Certainly not. Did Aziraphale stop him?

Unfortunately, “Don’t do that. You could damage something.”

“Locks and doorframes, probably.”

“Wily old serpent,” he tutted, looping his arm through his husband’s once again to keep him from damaging anything else.

“At least I’m not hurting any people.” He sounded so growly, angry frustration boiling around him. 

“I’m quite certain you injured the man who initially approached us,” Aziraphale pointed out.[176]

“He deserved it.”

Smiling, Aziraphale leaned up to kiss his cheek again. “I’m sure, but you don’t need to fret. We’ll find someone who’s in charge here, and they’ll know what happened to the convent, and we’ll be right on our way to locating those files again.” He nodded firmly, quite certain of it.

Crowley sighed gustily, kicking open another door and finding a woman. Aziraphale paused mid-scold, feeling the way his husband froze. The woman looked up from the phone she’d just set down. “It must be terrorists or poachers,” she said, peering at them curiously. “You are the police, aren’t you?”

“The police?” Aziraphale wondered, wondering what on Earth about him or Crowley made them look like officers of the law.

Before he could ask, though, he realized she was staring at his husband in wide-eyed awe. Or fear. “Saints and demons preserve us,” she breathed, “it’s Master Crowley.”

 _That_ required a very different line of questioning. “ _Master_ Crowley? Really?”

“Oh, don’t start.”

“‘Don’t start?’ For H-” The instincts in him grabbed the word and twisted it. “-pity’s sake, you ridiculous creature.”

She rose smartly from her seat, barely looking at him. The look on her face was most definitely awe _and_ fear. To think, anyone fearing his darling husband... It was, well, exceptionally odd.

\----

To Mary Hodges, formerly Sister Mary Loquacious, it was entirely natural. Things had changed, and changed quite a bit, in the eleven years since the demon before her had delivered a baby in a basket. The convent had burnt down, for a start, a few of the Sisters reforming elsewhere. Mary had stayed and, staring at Master Crowley now, she suddenly wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.

“Were the guns you?”

Master Crowley’s companion blinked, and Mary winced automatically. He must be a demon too, and they had a tendency to make Terrible Things Happen on whims. She could only imagine what dreadful things someone who refused to call Master Crowley _master_ might be capable of.

“The g-”

“Not getting into that,” Master Crowley interrupted, and she could feel his glare through those dark lenses. “You were a nun here eleven years ago. Mary... Mary Talkative or something like that.”

“Loquacious, yes. What-”

“Ah-bu-bu. I’m asking the questions here.”

“You don’t have to be mean,” his companion protested, forcing Mary to look his way again. Her brows arched.

“Good cop, bad cop, is it?” Well, she hadn’t become a fine businesswoman without having a backbone. She straightened it. “What am I being interrogated for?”

Master Crowley growled and some of the straightness bent. “What happened to the baby I gave you?” he demanded, words spaced out very carefully. They still managed to baffle her.

“I swapped him with the son of the American ambassador. Just as I was told to do. He was such a nice man, you understand. He used to be ambassador to Swindon.”

Master Crowley leaned back with a rather dramatic groan, and Mary finally realized they had their arms linked. Like a couple. They also had wedding rings. Like a couple.

“Then what happened?” his beige companion asked.

“Well, ah, Sister Garrulous came and took the other baby away.”

All impatience, Crowley snapped, “Right. This so-called American ambassador - what was his name, where did he come from, and what did he _do_ with the baby?”

“Shouldn’t you know, Master Crowley? It was all... Is he an angel?” she tried to whisper. “Blink twice if he’s holding you hostage.”

The only one she could see blinking was the beige companion, and he stared at Master Crowley in absolute confusion. The demon, for his part, looked even angrier with her. Oh, dear. “ _Answer_ me,” he snarled.

“I don’t _know_.”

“Records!” the beige companion interrupted, rubbing fingers against his temple as if a headache was forming. “There must have been records.”

“Well, yes, there were lots of records. We were very good at keeping records. I actually-”

“Where are they?” Master Crowley interrupted.

“Burned in the fire. It was terrible. We lost-”

At this, Master Crowley broke away entirely from his companion to step out of her office and yell profanities at the wall. His companion smiled weakly, hands clasping together. “Well,” he sighed, “is there anything you remember about the baby?”

She thought for a moment, those old memories surfacing. “He had lovely little toesie-woesies,” she admitted, “and he was very sweet. Not at all what I’d expected from the Antichrist.”

He winced as if he’d been very suddenly pinched, but the sound of sirens outside distracted him. “Is that the police?”

“Of course. I telephoned them about the guns.”

“About the-”

“Oi,” Master Crowley interrupted, popping his head back in and firmly snapping his fingers. She felt something in her mind, something tugging at the memories. Even as she looked at the pair, she was beginning to forget details. “We were never here,” Mas... someone said firmly and she only nodded as the two... one... 

Her office was empty as it had been most of the day. She tugged at her blazer in order to be more presentable to the police when she spoke to them about the- why paintball guns were perfectly legal. She had pamphlets all about it.

\----

Aziraphale looked a little too pale. It was terrifying. Crowley wrapped an arm around his waist as they walked through the courtyard, paintball guns being taken and examined by police. There was an ambulance neither he nor Aziraphale paid any mind to, his husband a little unsteady on his feet. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t heard the words angel or demon or Antichrist before - he’d read Revelations and many other religious texts. He wasn’t blind to the words. It would’ve been impossible.

But he was blind to them in context with himself, and she had accused him of being an angel to his face.

He never should’ve brought Aziraphale there. Or he should’ve left him in the Bentley whilst he went in and interrogated the nun. Former nun. He doubted he would’ve pulled anything useful out of her, considering the loss of records and her clear insistence that she’d done as she’d been told to do.

Of course the _stupid_ nun would still be there, he thought bitterly, though she was quite intelligent in developing her own business as she had. Taking a burnt convent and turning it into something entertaining.

“That was exceptionally peculiar. It was like... like speaking in code,” Aziraphale eventually offered. His desperate, clever mind coming up with explanations. Safe explanations.

“Full of codes, my bosses. Yup. Doesn’t surprise me she’d still remember them.”

“Right. Of course. And you’re sure she’ll forget us? Should, ah, should any of your bosses come along.”

“Yup.”

“How lovely.”

“Yup.” As they approached the Bentley, Crowley turned towards him and cupped his chin. “We’ll figure this out, dove. There’s bound to be another way to find the boy.” Even though he had a protective camouflage. He wouldn’t know it, but his powers would keep him hidden from prying occult[177] forces.

“Of course,” Aziraphale agreed. “I... We- We’ll just head home and pick up Damian and... And regroup. Yes. We’ll figure something out tomorrow.” Confidence slowly filled Aziraphale’s tone, his lips curving again. “A dramatic showdown is in our future, I’m sure. But no... no wars, yes.”

Crowley certainly hoped not, leaning forward to seal that with a firm kiss. One thing was for sure: if they didn’t find the Antichrist, it wouldn’t be the war to end all wars. It would be the war to end everything.

\----

“There’s a very peculiar feeling to this whole area,” Aziraphale said later, the sun beginning to sink behind the horizon. “I’m astonished you can’t feel it.”

“I don’t feel anything out of the ordinary,” he replied, tired. He didn’t exactly like feeling like some... some hopeless failure.

“But it’s everywhere. All over here.” Aziraphale’s voice shook as if he was afraid, but there was an undercurrent of awe. It grabbed Crowley’s attention. “Love,” he insisted. “Flashes of love.” He swallowed. “Crowley, perhaps this is meant.”

“Wot?”

Aziraphale clasped and unclasped his hands, fiddled with his wedding ring. “Perhaps we’re not meant to find the child. When we pick up Damian, we should just pretend this never happened. The real parents probably won’t ever find out.”

“Of course they’ll find out, Aziraphale. Bee’s people are... Well, they’re tracking the kid down too.” Sort of. They still thought the Dowling boy was the Antichrist, and Crowley wasn’t going to do or say a single thing to disabuse them of that notion. Let them find out at Megiddo.

Aziraphale sent him a pained look. “Crowley.”

“You think I wanted this to happen?! I’m just-” A scream and a hard thud brought the Bentley to a stop before Crowley even had a chance to touch the brakes. He and Aziraphale watched a very blurry bicycle and equally blurry bicyclist flip right over the hood to land in the ditch on the other side of the road.

Aziraphale moved nothing but his eyes, clearly horrified with how stiff he’d gone in the passenger seat. “You hit someone.”

“No, I didn’t.” Crowley swung around, properly indignant. “Someone hit me.”

Breathing heavily, Aziraphale pushed open the door before Crowley could stop him and rounded the Bentley. Damn, damn, damn-

He pushed open his door, the two of them just able to see the young woman sprawled amongst fallen leaves. Her bicycle looked as twisted as her body, but her little headlamp still shone. Shit, shit, shit- they didn’t have _time_ to take someone to the hospital. At least she wasn’t unconscious, her breaths coming out in pained whimpers. “Aziraphale-”

His husband ignored him, quickly stepping into the wilderness. “I think I hit my head,” she said weakly, trying to push herself up as Aziraphale crouched over her.

Crowley took a step closer himself, but his breath backed up into his lungs and everything else in him seemed to stop too as he watched Aziraphale’s hands float over her injured arm. “That’s it. No bones broken.” He sounded reassuring, but Crowley could hear the _snap_ her body made as it put itself back together.

He’d never seen that. He’d never once seen Aziraphale deliberately perform a miracle. Not since Cain and Abel. As he helped the girl up, Crowley turned his attention to the Bentley. A quick snap fixed a broken headlamp, the car obediently sorting out the dent the bicycle had made in the hood when he walked around and glared at it. She’d always been a good car.

When he looked up, Aziraphale had left the young woman standing by the edge of the road and was heading back down to get her mangled bicycle. As he straightened it up, the warped metal shifted into place and Crowley’s breath caught anew. “Amazingly resilient, these old machines. Where did you need to get to?”

“No! No, we’re not giving her a lift,” Crowley denied as he rounded the back. They didn’t have time, and he had to make sure- He had to keep Aziraphale from thinking about what he’d just done. Somehow. He didn’t seem about to discorporate, but Crowley felt like he himself might. “Out of the question,” he continued, leaning against his open door. “There’s nowhere to put the bike.”

“Except for the bike rack,” Aziraphale patiently reminded him. His eyes, when he looked over, weren’t the bright ones of the angel. How the Heaven had he performed such a blatant miracle? _Two_ of them?

“That’s for Damian.”

“And tonight, it’ll be for the young lady,” Aziraphale insisted firmly, then smiled at the bewildered, very nervous girl. “Do get in, my dear.”

Even though she was nervous and confused, her fear palpable to Crowley, she trusted Aziraphale’s calmness enough to take a few steps closer and brush the leaves from her dark, curling hair. Crowley resigned himself to the detour enough to push the seat forward so she could get into the back. “So where are we taking you?”

“Back to the village.” Her voice was firmer than her resolve, and Crowley had some grudging respect for that. “I’ll give you directions.”

As she settled, Crowley carefully looked over his husband and took the bicycle from him to strap it onto the rack as he’d done countless times for Damian. He loved riding his bike through the parks, the thought a grounding one. “Are you alright, dove?”

“Yes, of course. I... Just tired, I suppose, and missing home.”

“Right.” Crowley cupped his cheek, finding him solid and real and as beautiful as ever. If he could just have Her answer one single prayer, it would be to never lose him. “Let’s go, dove.”

\----

_Bicycle! Bicycle! I want to ride my bicycle..._

Anathema didn't think they were making fun of her with the music choice. Or, at least, she hoped they weren't.[178] Tall, dark, and gangly hadn't wanted anything to do with her while shorter, light, and plump had been nothing but accommodating. She still had her bread knife, at least, though Agnes would've told her if she'd be accosted by two unusual men in an equally unusual car. 

What were they, bicycle repairmen?

“Listen, my bike? It didn't _have_ gears.” She took off her glasses and tucked them away so they couldn't be used against her in a fight. “I know it didn't have gears. Make a left.”

The car turned, which was a relief. Every turn he'd made at her instruction had been a relief so far. It was her bike that caused her concern. It _was_ her bike, wasn't it? Phaeton was a classic, and she didn't need it messed with. 

“This is a lovely village,” Light said with a sigh. Dark, wearing sunglasses at night like an eighties song her mom loved, turned his whole head to frown at him. “Well, it is. Have you been here long, dear girl?” 

“A few days, but the whole town knows I'm staying a while. I've made several friends.” She'd met four children and the unpleasant neighborhood watch man who thought she was on... fatty spliffers, which was still quite the puzzle. Oh, she knew he meant drugs. But _which_ drugs and who had ever used that phrasing around him ever? The point was that it was smarter to tell potential kidnappers that she'd be missed if she were to disappear. So they couldn't just get rid of her. 

“That's nice. Cosy villages like this are just the ticket sometimes. Did you grow up in a large city?” 

“Not really. I was homeschooled.”

Light chuckled. “I sometimes wish I had been. But I'm thrilled you've found a spot in such a pleasant area. Striking out so far from home takes bravery.”

“Or stupidity,” Dark muttered, Light swatting his thigh. 

“I have a good reason for being here,” she deflected, leaning forward as they rounded the hill which led to Jasmine Cottage. “Oh. You can drop me off here.”

The car pulled to a stop, the music lowering its volume as the two men piled out of the front seat. Curiously, no one seemed to touch the dial. Anathema gathered her things, trying to keep an eye on them both. Dark had gone around to get Phaeton and Light was waiting patiently for her, so she took a deep breath and made sure she had a firm grip on her knife handle before she climbed out, free hand clasped gently in Light's as he assisted her. 

“There we are,” he soothed as Dark wheeled her bike to the stone half-wall outside the yard and swept the kickstand down. “Oh, look! No gears. Just a perfectly normal velocipede.”

“ _Bicycle_ ,” Dark corrected, nearly pouting. “Can we get on?” he asked with a wave of his hand, Anathema noticing the wedding ring on his finger for the first time. Light wore one too. “Get in, angel.”

Oh. So she'd been fine all along. 

“Yes, yes, coming, darling. Have a lovely, blessed evening,” Light wished her. She felt... oddly tingly.

“Thanks. Um. Goodnight.”

They got back in the car, speeding off while she hurried inside. What a weird, _weird_ encounter.

* * *

* * *

### Footnotes

173. Aziraphale isn’t sure how, but he does know he’s part of the opposite side. Whether or not that’s the good side is beyond him, considering how unnerved that stranger made him feel over sushi eleven years earlier, but he knows it isn’t Crowley’s. And it makes averting this war all the more vital.↩

174. His husband could be so very dramatic. Honestly.↩

175. The relatively harmless paintball guns had turned quite a bit less harmless, but don’t worry. No one was killing anyone. They were all having miraculous escapes. Wouldn’t be any fun otherwise. They just deserved a little bit of punishment for bothering Aziraphale. Enough to make them squirm.↩

176. What Crowley had done, knowing Aziraphale’s back was turned and his attention firmly on removing his coat, was transform the front half of his face into a vicious facsimile of his serpent form. The man foolish enough to approach them had simply fainted.↩

177. Or ethereal.↩

178. The Bentley was, a little bit, and Crowley’s not exactly unamused. Aziraphale’s just not changing the song to avoid starting something.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to [Phantomstardemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantomstardemon/pseuds/Phantomstardemon) who commented that they didn't have prophecies a couple chapters back~ 😉 
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [Syl-Writes-Stuff](https://syl-writes-stuff.tumblr.com/) and my lovely beta at [skimmingmilk](https://skimmingmilk.tumblr.com/).


	23. Lose Your Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prophecies, phone calls, curiosity, and desperate need - Armageddon is creeping closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Our chapter song](https://open.spotify.com/track/2Tp3uEfVC5FNiIdGFWQxOC?si=HeryHi_fSrOWg2Xxw1Km6g)
> 
> Thank you to [SkimmingTheSurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface) for her beta work, for finding details I put in brackets and never get back to, and paying more attention than I do to so many little details, lol.
> 
> Also, thar be some smut ahead. A rare (in my writing, lol) bottom Crowley

_But I don't want comfort.  
_ _I want God,  
_ _I want poetry,  
_ _I want real danger,  
_ _I want freedom,  
_ _I want goodness.  
_ _I want sin._

— Aldous Huxley

* * *

 **_Thursday  
_ ** **_3 Days Until the End of the World  
_ ** **_Driving_ **

“Don't ask me how I fixed the young lady's bicycle. Or her arm. Please.”

Crowley looked over, his fingers tight on the steering wheel. Aziraphale wished he could soothe him, but he didn’t even know where to begin. He didn’t know if it was safe to even voice any of it aloud, his instincts churning in his stomach enough that he didn’t even ask Crowley to pull over at a small diner they passed. He’d been peckish before the encounter with the young lady, but now...

He rubbed his palms against his thighs, gazing out the windscreen. He knew Crowley was speeding again, but they were late getting back to Damian. Goodness, poor Tracy would likely be sound asleep before they made it. So guilt joined the roiling in his stomach and, really, this was quite a bit more than he’d been prepared to deal with. War. They were averting a war, and that should sound so much more ridiculous than it did. Aziraphale should’ve been far more skeptical of all of this, yet each time he tried to pick and pull apart the logic, his heart would tighten and his mind would forcibly turn elsewhere.

Aziraphale highly disliked not knowing what was happening. He highly disliked not being able to trust his own mind. 

“Dove,” Crowley murmured, “just tell me you’re alright.”

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Aziraphale closed his eyes and slowly pushed his hands down as if he could shove away the building anxiety and fears. “I’m alright, dearest. It’s only that things are so much more... intense right now. Inside, I... Well. I’ve never faced anything like this before, have I?”

“No,” he replied, with the soft certainty that always piqued Aziraphale’s curiosity. He _knew_ Crowley had never once judged Aziraphale for his claims on having past lives and, as the years had gone, he’d come to the conclusion that Crowley also had links to days gone by. He just didn’t know what those links were, not when Crowley never spoke of his own memories. There was just a sense that his ran so much deeper. Aziraphale wasn’t often envious of that, but he was that night, sitting in the Bentley with the radio playing something low and soothing. 

“Do _you_ know how I fixed her and her bicycle?” he whispered.

Crowley’s fingers flexed. “Aziraphale, please-”

“I’ve done other things, you know. Sometimes, I do them on purpose. I like to help people. I can... I can feel when people are upset, you know that, but I can _help_ them too. I feel so strongly that I shouldn’t, but I simply can’t help myself at times. It was like that tonight, and I didn’t even have to think about _how_ , Crowley. I simply _did it_. As if I... I spoke it all into existence. I wanted her arm not to be broken and her bicycle to be fixed, and I got what I wanted.”

He knew Crowley was staring at him instead of the road, but couldn’t bring himself to scold him. He couldn’t make himself believe that it was silly to think the Bentley would keep them safely on the road, no matter where Crowley’s gaze ended up. And it was terrifying, somehow, to know those things. It felt as if he knew too much now, that he was so close to losing everything if he didn’t stop.

Crowley had always been the one to question things, but Aziraphale was finding it difficult to keep his own inquiries to himself. He was at the edge of something. All he had to do was reach out, and he’d know everything. 

But he knew, too, that he’d lose so much. He looked at him, finally, swallowing at what he found in his beloved’s gaze. He knew that Crowley knew what could and would be lost. His husband - his wily, clever, mischievous, marvelous husband - knew so much more than he had ever said, and right then, he knew to be afraid. Terribly, wretchedly afraid. 

Sometimes, Aziraphale reminded himself, it was best to make a faith-based decision. He had faith in Crowley. So he let go of the apple without taking a bite. “I’ll stop, sweet. My darling. Just drive the car, please.”

\----

Tracy wasn’t asleep, it turned out, but Damian was. Aziraphale lifted him from the couch whilst Crowley gathered his things, rubbing his back gently as he’d done when the boy had been a baby. He probably wouldn’t appreciate being carried now that he was older. Eleven whole years. Aziraphale wanted to cry, frustrated and guilt-ridden over things he didn’t understand. Couldn’t understand. He knew, because it wouldn’t leave him alone, that the world was ending. 

If they couldn’t find this right boy by Saturday, the world would end. How? Aziraphale didn’t know. What was the confirmation on the package’s arrival? Aziraphale didn’t know. He’d thought for a moment that surely any confirmation of a package’s successful delivery - even a dog - would be something they could track, but Crowley had struggled so hard and so long to come up with a way to tell him no that Aziraphale had simply given his knee a pat and let it go. 

The world was ending, and his husband couldn’t tell him why. Aziraphale knew he wanted to, that he was desperate to share every single worry and woe, yet couldn’t. Aziraphale wasn’t used to feeling useless, and he decided he hated it. He completely and utterly despised his inability to help his husband the way he needed. Not when Crowley had done so much for him over the years. Traveling and gifts, yes, but the man’s patience and love - they were unending. 

Aziraphale felt so inadequate in comparison, like he was failing him somehow and couldn’t change it. 

“Papa?” Damian mumbled

“Yes, duck. You just keep sleeping. We’re going home.”

 _Damian could die_ , Crowley had said. His eyes had been big and afraid and desperate. _Damian could die._ _And I need your help_.

What help could he be when the answers were out of his reach? For goodness sake, the _questions_ were out of his reach. The world was ending and he was failing his husband and their son. Some part of him, deep within and shivering, feared he was failing Her as well. He’d always felt as if he should be doing something, guarding people, helping them. Helping avert a war which would end the world as they knew it was certainly a chance to prove himself capable of such a feat.

And yet, he was useless. 

He smiled weakly at Tracy when she gave him a cheerful wave goodnight, listening to her agree to keep Damian the following day as well. She didn’t have anything scheduled until Saturday, a midday seance with a regular and two fresh faces looking for a show.

Crowley’s smile seemed genuine, cool and collected though it was, but Aziraphale could see the cracks. He could see the stress in the lines of his brow, the corners of the smile, the way he stood. Weaving a little, like a snake wanting to strike yet suffering without an outlet. Aziraphale, for the first time in thirty-five years, didn’t know what to do to soothe him. He could only carry Damian down the stairs and to the Bentley, bundling him in the backseat. In the streetlamps, something on the floor caught his eye. A glint of gold.

He reached down, brows lifting as he picked up a book. “What on Earth is this?” he wondered, holding it up. “Crowley, there’s a book back here.”

“Well, it’s not mine. I don’t read books.”

Aziraphale sent his husband a disbelieving look. “It has to belong to the young lady you _hit_ with your car.”

Crowley shook his head and slid in behind the wheel, muttering about sending it to the Tadfield post office addressed to the “mad American woman with the bicycle.” But Aziraphale wasn’t listening, knuckles white as he read the title. _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter_.

He’d heard of it, of course. No one in the business of prophecy books hadn’t heard of this one legendary collector's item. It was said that it was entirely composed of true predictions. Nice and accurate, indeed, and Aziraphale had found an ancient publisher’s catalogue for the year it was published and had then asked Crowley later about “Betamax” and why it might be a poor idea to purchase it. He’d been laughed at, then treated to all the reasons why the bit of technology had so spectacularly failed. One, at least, very provably accurate prophecy. 

“Angel?”

“What? Yes? I- Right. Let’s get home, shall we?” Trembling, he climbed into the vehicle and laid the volume facedown in his lap.

Crowley arched a brow. “An interesting book?”

“No,” he said quickly, flushing when Crowley pushed his sunglasses down so he could see the amount of disbelief that reaction garnered. “Well, yes. To me. We’ll have to return it to her.”

“Seems to me you want to read it first.”

“Oh... You don’t think it would be rude, do you?” A prophecy book. An _accurate_ prophecy book. It shouldn’t be possible, but something ancient and powerful was tingling over Aziraphale’s fingers everywhere he touched the bindings. For all that Crowley’s claim to not read books was a lie, they were still very much Aziraphale’s forte. This was something he could do, parse through this tomb and see if any of it was of use.

Crowley shrugged, fingers moving restlessly over the wheel as the Bentley pulled into traffic. “Might be. But how’ll she know? She shouldn’t have forgotten it in the first place.”

“Perhaps she was still feeling a bit unsettled after you hit her.”

“She hit me,” Crowley insisted, and Aziraphale’s lips pulled into a smile despite himself.

“Crowley... You know I love you, don't you?” 

“I'm still not admitting it was my fault.”

“No, I-” Aziraphale reached out, hand laying on his thigh. “It's unrelated. Do you know I love you?” 

“Angel... Of course I do. I know. I've _known_.”

Aziraphale was ashamed how much he hated the idea that Crowley probably knew better than he himself did. His mind and heart were both torn in so many awful directions. So many of them helpless. “Drop me off at the bookshop.”

“Wot?”

“For the night. Please. You and Damian go home, but I need to be at the bookshop.”

“On your own? _Now_? Aziraphale-” 

“Crowley, my dearest, don't argue with me. Don't make me think more than it's safe to think. Just trust that I need to be alone tonight and that I can handle it.”

“It’s not about trusting _you_.”

Aziraphale was sure that was only partially true, but sighed quietly and squeezed his thigh rather than argued. “Please.”

\----

He wasted quite a bit of time between kissing his husband goodnight and actually opening the _Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch_. He made himself a nice cup of cocoa, ate no less than three biscuits, and gathered supplies. A fine old journal he liked, a pen, a second pen just in case, a second old journal he liked just a smidge less than the first, a third pen just in case, picked a record, changed the record, changed it again, and by then he needed a second cup of cocoa because the first was emptied.

“This book,” he said to himself, comforted by hearing a voice even if it was just his own, “is dangerous. I know it is, but it’s vitally important that I read it. It’s even more vital that I understand it.” He sat at his favourite desk by the window and set his mug aside, opening a drawer to withdraw white cotton gloves. He liked this pair. It never got white fibers on his more delicate tombs, and this was a book which needed nothing less than his best. “It’s almost as if it’s metaphorically ticking.”

With the faintest of laughs, he carefully opened the cover and sighed at the little drawing on the front page. Damian would never, he thought with fondness, but then leaned back. His instincts were rolling, desperate to yet afraid to surface.

“Words are dangerous things, aren’t they? Particularly for you.” The other half of him, this thing he called instinct yet knew was more. “What if we changed them? As loathe as I am to alter a book like this, we can always fix it. Yes?”

Yes.

“Right then. Ah... Alphas and Deltas would be good replacements, I think. As well as, er, Over and Under? Can't both be Hets, can they? Oh, my.” He took a steadying breath, and picked up his spectacles. He didn’t remember bringing them from home, but they were in reach anyway. He hooked them over his ears, hoping his little family would settle in for the night. He didn’t think Crowley would, but he could hope.

“Alright. So the words will be altered for you. I think it’s you who needs to read this, don’t you?”

He closed his eyes again, and they were bright when they opened. It wasn’t perfect, not at all, but it would do. He wouldn’t allow this book to kill him. Absolutely not. His husband trusted him, and Aziraphale was not going to let him down. Not again.

Not ever again.

Swallowing, he opened the prophecy book, the rarest of editions in his shop, to a random page and looked down.

_3008\. When that the alpha readeth these words of mine, in his shoppe of other menne’s books, then the final days are certes upon us. Open thine eyes to understand. Open thine eyes and rede, I do say, foolish principalitee, for thy cocoa doth grow cold._

His gaze lingered over the word alpha, knowing it wasn’t the right word. Knowing, too, that the right word would send him far away. But principalitee... Principality? Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the-

“Cocoa,” he said to himself, looking up from the book. “‘Thy cocoa doth grow cold?’ What coc- oh!” he gasped, leaning back as he caught sight of his own mug. Of course. Yes.

 _Oh_. 

Oh, dear.

This book was dangerous. Breathing heavily, Aziraphale carefully turned back to the first page, and leaned in. So help him, he’d read every word.

\----

 **_Friday  
_ ** **_2 Days Until the End of the World  
_ ** **_Soho, London_ **

The sun peeked through the bookshop windows, the early morning shining down onto a man-shaped being still perched at his desk. He’d read nearly the entirety of the book at this point, had taken copious amounts of notes, but he wasn’t tired. Not physically, at any rate. Mentally, he was nearly ready to shut down entirely. This was all so fantastic. So incredible. He recognized so many of the things she’d predicted, if only through Crowley’s fondness for technology. 

_3817\. The Number of the Beast is in the Revelayting of Sainte John, call hym in Taddesfield. And ye will know hym by this sign, that when ye do call hym, the Lesser Beaste will walk upon his hind legs like unto a Dancing Bear._

It was also, actually, a bit silly. But to call him... Aziraphale glanced to his left, the phone that sat within reach. The Number of the Beast in Tadfield...

“Hang on,” he murmured, looking up from the prophecies. He had an array of reference books lined up and waiting, including a copy of the Holy Bible. Setting his pen aside, he slid the tomb off the shelf and began to flip through it. 

_John 13:18. Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six._

666\. “It can’t be that simple, can it?” he asked himself, carefully closing the book. He set it down and picked up another piece of reference material and his pen, turning pages and turning towards the phone. “I’d have to put the Tadfield area code first, of course...”

Heart racing in his chest, Aziraphale put the number into the rotary dial and waited through the ringing. It was early, he realised, but hopefully not impolitely so. 

“Tadfield, 0-4-6-triple-6. Arthur Young here,” a man greeted and Aziraphale nearly began to stutter out apologies. Until-

“Dad, look, I got Dog to walk on his hind legs!”

On his hind legs. A _dog_ on its hind legs. The package had been a dog. “Sorry,” he managed, “right number!” And then he slammed the phone down with a gasp. 

Swallowing, he looked down at his papers again and at the book. Nice and accurate prophecies, yes. Extremely accurate. Terrifyingly accurate.

He had to call Crowley, so reached for the phone again. His fingers paused, though, hovering over the receiver. No. No, his husband was too impulsive. They had to have a plan. A good, proper plan. The sort that wouldn’t result in the death of the entire world.

The phone rang and he nearly jumped out of his housecoat, eyeing it curiously. Had it been that Arthur - what was it? Arthur Young? He picked up the receiver cautiously, hesitantly saying, “Hello?”

“Hey, papa.”

“ _Damian_. Oh.” Aziraphale picked up the phone so he could lean back in his chair, sigh relieved. “What on Earth are you doing up at such an early hour, duck?”

“Well, dad’s pacing and muttering to himself.”

Oh, dear, what was _Crowley_ doing up at such an early hour? His darling had slept in nearly every single morning they’d been together unless it was for a special occasion. Or for Damian. Always for Damian. Handling diapers and feedings when he’d been a baby, early morning cartoons as he’d gotten older, getting him to school as he’d gotten older still. 

_Damian could die._

“He’s just a bit, ah, riled up with all that’s been happening. Much like me, I suppose.”

“Is that why you didn’t come home?”

“Yes, duck, I’m so sorry. I needed to work, and I think I’ve gotten a rather good handle on this now.” He hoped. He knew the Anti- 

Gritting his teeth together, Aziraphale tipped his head back and reeled in his panic. He dragged his wayward thoughts in like reeling in fish on a line. 

He knew the right boy’s phone number, knew he did indeed have a dog, and Aziraphale knew his father’s name. The realisation struck that he was actually Damian’s father, and his hand snapped to cover the receiver before his ragged breath could be overheard and misunderstood. Oh, good Lord, he hadn’t fully allowed himself to consider this, but... But, oh, they were not only tracking a child but their own son’s rightful parents. 

Oh, goodness, his dem- His husband had made such a mess, but Aziraphale dragged that thought away as well and pushed on. All they had to do, if he understood correctly, was keep this dog from... whatever it was going to do the following day. Even though he didn’t like how many of Agnes’s prophecies had mentioned a Great Beaste and a Lesser Beaste. The Lesser Beaste, apparently, was the dog. And it was the Great Beaste who needed to be stopped.

But what could a child do? It was clearly a mistake. 

It didn’t feel like a mistake.

“Papa?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath before moving his hand away from the receiver. “Yes, duck?”

“Are you and dad going to go out and try to fix things again today?”

“I think we must.” As soon as he had his plan. “Tell your dad that if he’s going to be up this early, he needs to take you to breakfast. Heaven only knows how terribly he’d ruin anything he attempts to cook. After, he can take you to see Ms. Potts again.”

“Okay. What about you?”

He couldn’t remember ever feeling less hungry. “I’m ordering in.”

Damian laughed, the sound something Aziraphale held close to his heart. “Cool. I’ll see you later?”

“Most certainly,” he promised, though he didn’t know. He looked back at the book, the nice and accurate prophecies within exciting as well as terrifying him. “Tell your dad to get a wiggle on now, and you do the same. Don’t be difficult now, pip pip.”

“I won’t. Love you, papa.”

“I love you too, duck. Tell-”

“I know, I know. I’ll tell dad you love him too.”

“Oh, that’s lovely. Thank you.”

He scoffed over the line. “Bye.”

“Goodbye, Damian. Mind how you go.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes as the line went dead, hanging up slowly. He could do this.

\----

**_No. 473, London_ **

Shadwell couldn’t recall a time when the man had actually stepped foot in his flat. Oh, no, he could. He just preferred not to think about it,[179] and couldn’t think of a time since. They usually met at little cafes or spots out of the way. All suspiciously in walking distance of Shadwell’s flat since the man had discovered where he lived, but still out of the way enough to keep some clandestine feel to the meetings.

Like his father, Crowley seemed committed to his dramatics. And, well, Shadwell could respect a commitment like that. Especially when the commitment was on the frightening side.

Or could be. With his husband and child around, Crowley tended to be as frightening as a wee bairn. Before seeing them together, he’d been positive Crowley was some sort of mafia man. He still wasn’t so sure that he wasn’t, but some of the intimidation had gone at the sight of him so whipped by a powder puff like Aziraphale and then seeing him carrying a baby around in a papoose. 

If he _was_ mafia, Shadwell was fairly certain no one else had seen his family. His reputation would be in tatters. His father had been much more of a terror before very suddenly disappearing. Shadwell hadn’t heard from the man for well over a decade until his lookalike had sauntered up to him with an entirely different wardrobe and far more easy, well, joy in his strides. His father had been coiled and tight.

Perhaps it was the family that had softened the son.

“Ah... Ye’re lookin’ well.”

“Clean living,” he answered shortly.

“Oh. Ah. Ye seemed a bit out o’sorts yesterdee.”

“Noticed that, did you?” He hooked his thumbs into the belt loops of his denims, wandering about Shadwell’s witchfinder collection and making him want to tug at his shirt collar. Perhaps not _all_ of the intimidation was gone. The man still paid him, after all. Far more than the agreed upon two hundred fifty pounds, something that had changed soon after the wee lad had learned to talk. _Maybe_ Shadwell had let the lad into his space a few times. _Maybe_ Shadwell had a soft spot for children.

“Aye. Your man seemed to be as well.”

He looked away from Witchfinder Lt. “Get Them Before They Get You” Dalrymple’s Thundergun, brows lifting. “And Damian? How was he?”

“Seemed, ah, alright. He pestered my new recruit quite a bit, but I dinnae mind. Witchfinder Private Pulsifer is a dedicated lad.”

“Hm.”

He turned away from the gun entirely, quietly regarding Shadwell. Fuck’s sake. He could dither on the point sometimes, couldn’t he? There had to be a reason he’d come ‘round. “So...?”

“There’s a village called Tadfield in Oxfordshire. You can send your new recruit down there. I’m looking for a boy. He’s about eleven and he’ll have a dog with him. I don’t have anything more than that, but look for anything... strange.”

That was a different sort of a thing. “This, uh, boy... He’s a witch?”

“Possibly. We’ll have to find him first, won’t we?”

“Aye,” he agreed with a small chuckle. Though it was an exceptionally odd request. “I’ll... I’ll send the lad directly.”

Crowley nodded and started up the stairs. “Call me if you find anything.”

Shadwell watched him disappear out the door, questions reeling in his mind. An eleven year old lad in Tadfield? The same age as Damian. Peculiar. Very, very peculiar.

\----

Nearly as peculiar as the phone call he got a short time later. Though it was Tracy who answered the phone between their rooms, twirling the cord around her finger with a saucy, “Hel _lo_?”

“Oh, Tracy, hello. I was hoping to speak with Sergeant Shadwell, if you’d be so kind. Is he in?”

“I believe so. Is something the matter, Aziraphale? Crowley said you were working.” But Damian had said he hadn’t come home that night. It didn’t seem like him. 

“Just fine, my dear lady. But, please, it’s vital that I speak to Sergeant Shadwell.”

“I’m looking, dear.” She knocked three time on the door before turning the handle. “Coo-ee, Mr. Shadwell,” she greeted, then paused when she saw his new recruit at a small desk with Damian eagerly devouring the newspapers beside him. “Oh, hello, dears.”

“Hello, Madame Tracy,” the young man greeted. 

“Away with ye, harlot!” was yelled from the kitchen, Aziraphale’s sigh audible even with the receiver against her shoulder. 

“Telephone’s for you, Mr. Shadwell. It sounds important.” She could hear him grumbling under his breath as he made his way towards the stairs, but smiled knowingly. “He’s on his way,” she said into the phone, then to Shadwell, “Oh, and I’ll be getting a nice bit of liver for us for Sunday.”

“I’d sooner sup with th’ devil,” he snapped, reaching for the phone.

She passed it over with an impish sort of look, ducking under the cord when he shooed her away. “So if you could just give me the plates back from last week. There’s a love.”

Shadwell huffed quietly, bringing the phone to his ear. “Aye?”

“Sergeant Shadwell,” Aziraphale began, voice low and earnest as if someone were about to overhear him, “is Damian nearby? I don’t want him to know I’m speaking with you.”

Shadwell looked over his shoulder. To him, Damian still seemed engrossed in the newspapers. But the boy had been raised by both an angel _and_ a demon, so knew how to be curious and sneaky. “S’fine. What can I do ye fer?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “Now I know that you and my husband have, ah, some sort of an arrangement.” He’d never asked for the details, and he wasn’t going to just then. But he had a feeling it was something shady, and that was just what he needed.

“Dunno what ye mean.”

“Please, I haven’t got the time for falsehoods. Is young Newton or are you yourself free? I need someone to, ah, poke about a bit.”

“Poke?” Shadwell wondered, curiosity overriding his good sense. Crowley had always told him not to tell his partner about their connection, but if he already knew... Well, what was the harm? “Where exactly d’ye want us pokin’?”

“Tadfield,” Aziraphale replied urgently, and Shadwell’s brows drew together. Interesting. “It’s a small town in Oxfordshire. There’s a boy I need placed under observation. I-I need to know where he is at all times. I can give you his address.”

Well, he knew more than his husband. “Will the lad have a dog too?”

Aziraphale sucked in a sharp breath. “Beg pardon?”

“Just a wee joke. A lad in Tadfield?”

“Yes. And, ah, sergeant, he will most definitely have a dog. If my information is as reliable as it seems.”

Shadwell wondered if it was as reliable as the man’s own husband, considering Crowley seemed to be asking for the same lad to be watched. He almost reckoned they were working together, but something in the urgency of Aziraphale’s tone and the fact that Aziraphale knew more information than Crowley got a rise of his curiosity. “Ye understand, Mr. Crowley-Fell, that I don’t exactly have a high-salaried job that allows me to go gallivanting about the country. Now-”

“I’ll pay you. Whatever you deem is fair and possibly even a few pounds more. I know your rent if it’s the same as Tracy’s. Consider it paid, if you like. I just need eyes on this boy, and I need them to stay there until I, ah, give you more orders.”

“Oh. Aye. Tha’s a horse of a different colour, innit?”

“I thought so.” Aziraphale searched his pockets for the note he’d scribbled down, determined to give him the correct details. “Now, the boy is called... Adam Young,” he began, and Shadwell nabbed the pen and paper pad kept by the telephone, “and his address is number four, Hogback Lane, Tadfield. Have you got it?”

“Absolutely, Your Honour. Tadfield it is.”

“Oh, good! Thank you _so_ much. Pip-pip. And, uh, let me know when you or your man is in position. And do not tell Damian I telephoned you.” A beat. “Or Crowley.”

He hung up and Shadwell scoffed to himself as he hung up. “‘Pip-pip,’” he mimicked, turning to head back inside. “Great southern pansy.”

\----

Damian frowned, looking up from the articles Newt was paying special attention to. They had headlines and tags like:

**_A White Christmas in Oxfordshire Village -- Again  
_** **_Against all the odds, Tadfield has three inches of snow. Only town in England._ **

and

**_Apple trees producing more fruits with miracle weather conditions_ **

They were suspicious to Newt, though Damian wouldn’t have said so. He liked Shadwell’s awkward recruit, though. He seemed pretty cool under all the nerves. And a ton more organized than Shadwell to boot. He also seemed as bad at technology as papa, which was wicked.

“Find any witches yet, Witchfinder Private Pulsifer?”

“Uh-eh-even better than that. I found something _really_ interesting.” He rose, and Damian sat up and shifted to avoid getting trod on by accident.

“Hmm,” Shadwell grunted, picking his tea off the side table by the stairs. He ruffled Damian’s hair with an absent fondness as he passed.

“I’ve discovered some unusual weather patterns,” Newt continued, following Shadwell across the room. “There’s a town in Oxfordshire with some very strange weather events.”

“Oh, rainin’ blood?” Shadwell asked, brows raising as he sipped from what very few people - certainly not his papa - would call tea. “Or rainin’ fish? Satanic frost in summer withering the crops after some hag got into an argument with a farmer?”

“No. It’s just... It always has _perfect_ weather for the time of year.”

Shadwell wandered into the kitchen, eyeing him. “Ye call that a phenomenon?”

“Normal weather for the time of year isn’t normal. I- Er- Crisp autumns, long, hot Augusts - the kind of weather you used to dream of as a kid,” he tried to explain, but Shadwell was shaking his head. “It’s snowed there every Christmas Eve for the last eleven years.”

“Not interested,” he dismissed. “Just look for witches and witch-caused phenomenon-enoms.”

Newt returned to the desk, frowning at his sorted piles, and Damian stood to go ask Madame Tracy for some hot cocoa. And to find out if she knew why his papa had called Sergeant Shadwell. Newt was weirdly obsessed with this Tadfield place, and Damian just didn’t understand. He was more jealous that it had snowed on Christmas Eve every year.

Though, as he mounted the steps and called out to the sergeant that he’d be back in a little while, it did occur to him that _he_ had been around for eleven Christmases. And so had the “right kid.”

He didn’t ask Madame Tracy about the phone call, taking his steaming mug back to Shadwell’s with some pep. Newt was reading his Witchfinder Manual: Second Edition Handbook of Instruction, lips moving the way Damian’s own did when he was focused. Sometimes, he’d get teased for it in class so promised himself he wouldn’t mention it. He wanted to ask-

“Sergeant Shadwell, you know the village I was telling you about with the perfect weather?” Newt asked, and Damian sat on the bottom step with his cocoa. Shadwell walked to the window instead of answering. “Well,” Newt continued, “according to the manual, witches can influence the weather.”

The window closed, the sounds of the street and any chance of breathing in fresh air vanishing. “What if I was to sort of nip over there tomorrow, have a little look ‘round?” Newt offered. “I could pay for my own petrol.”

“This village. It would nae be called Tadfield, would it?”

Damian sat up straighter, and Newt seemed just as stunned. “How did you know that?”

Shadwell chuckled to himself. “Aye... Well, I s’pose it can’t do any harm. Eh. Be here at nine o’clock in the mornin’. Afore ye leave.”

“What for?” he asked

The last thing Damian heard before he sped back to Tracy’s, phone in hand, was Shadwell’s incredulous, “Yer armour o'righteousness.”

\----

**_Soho, London_ **

The bell over the door jingled, startling Aziraphale away from his corkboard of notes and charts and maps. “Dove!” had him snapping the book closed over his notes and scurrying out of the back room before his impatient husband could find him.

Guilt wracked him, tightly coiled in his gut as he recalled the unfortunate fact that he was now the one keeping secrets. He’d found the boy, yes, but he still didn’t have a plan. He didn’t know what he was going to do when Shadwell let him know they’d made contact.

Oh, dear, he should’ve made it more clear that he didn’t want them making contact. If the dog was really a weapon, who knew what sorts of things it could do to unsuspecting persons?

Crowley was just as bad off, really. He really didn’t have much of a plan himself. Maybe they could drive to Tadfield themselves and see what they could find? If anything? Following every single dog and track them to every single master. There wasn’t much time, but at least it was something. Because the other plan stirring in his mind, no matter how many times he told himself it was insane, was _insistent_ on continuing to stir. He could probably figure it out.

The _problem_ was that he could probably figure it out. If it was more far-fetched, maybe he could tuck it away. As it was...

“Hello, dear. How- Er. Well, I suppose you aren’t doing very well.”

“Not especially.” He stalked towards the kitchenette to fetch Aziraphale’s bourbon. He needed something strong, so he came back and clicked two glasses onto the table before pouring. 

Aziraphale made his way closer, reaching up to knead his tightly knotted shoulders. “Dearest... It’s going to be alright. It _will_.”

Crowley whirled and yanked off his sunglasses, so Aziraphale raked his fingers into his hair and pulled him down into a kiss to distract him from everything. To distract them both.

They'd learned a lot about one another since that first night in July of 1987. They'd touched one another in more ways and more times than they could count. They'd explored kinks together, learning what worked and didn't for them. Aziraphale rather liked being handcuffed, but Crowley got anxious when the cuffs went around his own wrists. Crowley liked being gagged so he could hear Aziraphale's words and had, on one memorable occasion, been brought to orgasm with Aziraphale watching and praising him alone. The _words_. Neither of them liked when Aziraphale was gagged. 

Aziraphale’s favourite way to top was on his back amidst the pillows with Crowley writhing and riding him. Crowley didn't have a favourite, eager to fill Aziraphale in whatever position they wanted. No surface was off limits except the bookshelves (and anywhere in Damian’s room because they weren’t _animals_ ), and his favourite _place_ to take his husband was against a wall. He didn't think that counted as a position. 

They'd learned how to use hands and mouths and eyes and words to bring as much pleasure as possible, how to tease, how to show appreciation for every line and every curve. They could usually talk about what they wanted beforehand or during, the plans often as erotic as the actions themselves. 

Sometimes, though, sometimes sheer need took over.

It was need that afternoon. Desperate and guilty and needy. So needy. 

Crowley didn't know how many articles were miracled off or pulled off by hand, and Aziraphale was too busy grabbing his face for more eager kisses or yanking at Crowley’s clothes to notice the unusual quickness to his disrobing. He just knew his breath caught on a sob when fingers finally reached skin. “Crowley!” 

“Yesss.” 

They fell onto the sofa, Aziraphale’s head falling back when Crowley ran his tongue along the column. Sometimes, he could've sworn that his lover's tongue was forked and this was one of those times. It trailed lower, teeth grazing over skin, and Aziraphale sobbed again when his nipple was sucked. The other was pinched and rolled between Crowley's knuckles and he bucked his hips up in search of delicious friction until they flipped. 

“Angel,” Crowley gasped, fingers tangling in Aziraphale's curls and hips lifting. Legs winding. 

“Oh, my darling, yes. You’ll open for me, won’t you? Let me fill you, have you.”

“Aziraphale- Yes, I want-” Neither of them knew how his hand slickened - Aziraphale because he couldn’t and Crowley because he couldn’t spare the stressful thought - but he coated his cock in a few quick tugs and lined himself up. “ _Aziraphale_ ,” Crowley repeated, fingers digging into his shoulders as his body easily accommodated his husband’s girth. He didn’t need extra preparations, barely needed the wet, but he liked the slide. He loved the way his angel felt stretching him open, filling him. He loved looking up into eyes dark with want. A hand slid into the white of his curls, tight, tight, tugging, whilst Aziraphale’s hips moved.

Hard and fast and _powerful_. Desperation curled around them both, taking them over and forcing them along on its current. For a moment, just a split second between Aziraphale taking hold of his cock and his head tossing back in release, Crowley would’ve sworn he could see the shimmering outline of white wings.

Aziraphale’s hips snapped forward as he came, dragged over the edge by the tight clutching of muscle and some sort of wild energy crackling over his skin. Something Crowley shouldn’t show him, something dangerous and forbidden. Something Aziraphale _wanted_.

There was so much he wanted. And so much that he couldn’t have. Not yet. 

But he could have this, his husband shivering under him as they both came down, as the tension receded for just a little while. Just until Aziraphale mumbled into his neck, “If the world was ending... If it was ending, I’d want to save it. Wouldn’t you?”

Crowley’s phone rang.

* * *

* * *

### Footnotes

179. The one and only time Crowley had entered the flat had been the first time Crowley had let Aziraphale drag him off to meet his new human friend. Tracy had been a delight, but he’d been exceptionally shocked to see Shadwell across the hall. Shocked enough that he’d immediately backed the witchfinder into the flat to demand what he was doing, why, and, hang on, are _you_ the rude man who had called my angel a southern pansy?↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at [SylWritesStuff](https://sylwritesstuff.tumblr.com/) and my lovely beta at [skimmingmilk](https://skimmingmilk.tumblr.com/).


	24. Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's mind continues to be put under stress, Crowley's still trying to make plans, Heaven and Hell aren't helping matters, and Damian sure is a sneaky kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thank you, as usual, to [SkimmingTheSurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface) for her beta work.
> 
> [Our chapter song]()
> 
> There's quite a bit of show dialogue in this one, but this is likely to be one of the last chapters heavy with it.

_Since you came to birth in this world at this time,  
_ _in this place,  
_ _and with this particular destiny,  
_ _it was this indeed that you wanted and required for your own ultimate illumination.  
_ _That was a great big wonderful thing that you thereupon brought to pass:  
_ _not the "you" of course,  
_ _that you now suppose yourself to be,  
_ _but the "you" that was already there before you were born.  
_ _You are not now to lose your nerve!  
_ _Go on through with it and play your own game all the way!_

― Joseph Campbell

* * *

 **_Friday  
_ ** **_2 Days Until the End of the World  
_ ** **_Soho, London_ **

“You want to _what_?” Crowley snapped. They hadn’t answered straight away, needing to separate and clean off a bit, but their son was on speakerphone now.

“I want to stay the night,” Damian repeated, with all the patience Aziraphale had taught him. “Ms. Potts said I could already.”

Aziraphale laid his hands on Crowley’s shoulders, desire to soothe the tension renewed as it crawled its way back into knotted muscle. “I think it’s a fine idea.”

Crowley grunted.[180]

“Thanks, papa! Bye!”

“Da-” The line clicked and Aziraphale sighed, pulling his gangly husband into his lap and gently scattering kisses across his bare shoulders. “You can call him back, dearest. But I believe we should leave him be. He’ll have a nice night with Tracy, and we’ll fetch him tomorrow.”

After stopping the end of the world. He’d tell him in the morning, he vowed. Tonight was for them. 

\----

 **_Saturday  
_ ** **_The Last Day of the World  
_ ** **_Soho, London_ **

They’d made it up to the little flat above the bookshop eventually, collapsing together in a tangle of limbs. For the second night in a row, Aziraphale hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep and he suspected it was the same for Crowley. But they hadn’t needed or hadn’t wanted it. He wasn’t sure, but he felt better with his husband’s fingers and teeth leaving beautiful marks in his skin. He pressed his thighs together just to enjoy the little sting, the smiling kiss pressed to the back of his neck worth every sleepless hour.

Crowley still hadn’t answered his question, but that was alright. Everything would be tickety-boo soon enough. As dawn’s light spilled into the flat, the two of them stumbled into the small bathroom and shared a very cramped shower that ended in weak knees and satisfaction, cleanliness an afterthought.

Leaving Crowley to dry and fix his hair, Aziraphale bundled himself in a robe and went down the stairs to gather their clothes. For good measure, he tugged his papers off of the corkboard and folded them into the pages of Agnes Nutter’s book. They’d head to Tadfield, he decided, and stop the dog. And the boy. He still didn’t have a plan, but perhaps Crowley might be able to think of something during the drive. 

But when he came downstairs, a towel loosely hooked about his waist, he had a much more pleasant idea. “Can we take a walk? Just through the park ‘round here. I’ll get you a tea from the café.”

“Of course, darling. I need to speak to you anyway.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.” Aziraphale gave him a weak smile. “Or not afraid, I suppose. It’s possibly even good news. It’s definitely good news. I- Oh,” he sighed, gathering up Crowley’s clothes and pushing them at him. “Here, you indecent devil.”

“And you’re any better?”

Aziraphale straightened his robe, pleased to see Crowley’s grin. “Yes.”

It would be alright, he told himself, gathering his own things and quietly, secretly, cleaning them with wish alone. 

When they made it to the park, it was a relief to be amongst greenery and art and people. It felt so human, something Aziraphale shared and something Crowley sighed at. “Yeah...”

“Can I tell you something without you being awful about it? It’s going to sound... odd.”

“Angel, nothing you told me could make me be awful to you today. What is it?”

“Well, it’s about the book. You see, I-” He stopped. Him and Crowley went very, very still as a man jogged nearby. A man who hadn’t aged in eleven years.

Crowley grabbed him, whirling him and pressing him against a quaint little bandstand. Before Aziraphale could figure out how exactly he was supposed to be feeling about this highly unusual situation, his mouth was being taken over and his mind with it. There was a frightened edge in Crowley’s kiss, his terror more than enough to drag Aziraphale away from his wonderings. Seeking to soothe, he lifted his hand to the nape of his neck. He toyed with his hair there, stroking gently as he softened the bruising kiss. 

“Dearest,” he sighed, Crowley’s ragged breaths aching in his heart. “Oh, my dearest, it’s alright. I’m still here.”

“I-”

“I’m still here,” he promised, cupping his cheeks. 

His sunglasses slipped down his nose. “I’m going to take you back to the bookshop.”

“What?”

“You’ll be safe there.”

“I don’t want to go-” He was grabbed again, but by the wrist this time. Crowley pulled him down the path, both of them keeping an eye out for the man even though neither of them said a word about it. “Crowley, I mean it. I don’t-”

“You’re _going_. You’ll be safe there.”

“We need to go to Tadfield.”

“Fine, we will. Fine. But you’re going to the bookshop first. I need to- I need to think, angel.”

Was he really? he wondered and winced, feeling like a plucked string. No. No, he wasn’t. He was a human. Just a simple, average human and his simple, average human of a husband was going to take him to his bookshop. “Yes. Yes, I-I- Take me back to the bookshop.”

“Aziraphale?”

His mind was reeling, trying so very hard to tamp down on _knowledge_. He usually tried so very hard to acquire it, but he was suddenly as terrified as the man-shaped being clinging to him. “ _Aziraphale_.”

\----

**_Heaven_ **

Something was... odd.

Extremely odd.

Gabriel gazed out of one of Heaven’s many windows, looking out at reflections of the things humanity had created through the ages. The building and sculptures which reached high into the clouds, flawed wretches reaching for Heaven. It was almost commendable, their attempts to be more than they were or could ever be.

It was fitting that they’d enclosed Aziraphale into a small box. He, too, seemed to be attempting to be more than intended. Gabriel was so sure he’d seen him on his final Earthen run. Only a glimpse, but he knew those curls far better than he wanted to.

He hadn’t stayed to watch the redhead pushing what was very likely an angel against a wall, not when their mouths had touched. Unusual, odd, and he hadn’t been able to see Aziraphale’s face for the long fingers cupping his cheeks.

But surely an angel kissing a human in broad daylight was punishable. He’d asked just that of Michael when he’d returned to Heaven, Sandalphon and Uriel busy sharpening their holy weapons. Good soldiers, the pair of them. Hell wouldn’t stand a chance.

Michael, too. They were the best of them when it came to battles. He hoped Lu- Satan still had their footprint on his cheek.

A sharp inhale caught his attention, Michael’s, “I may be out of line here,” having him look away from the view. “But I’ve been following up on what you said earlier today. About seeing Aziraphale snogging some stranger in a park?”

He stepped away from the window entirely to face them, intrigued, and he pressed his palms against a table that appeared just for that purpose. 

“I went back through the Earth Observation Files,” they explained and laid down a small scattering of black-and-white photographs. Gabriel straightened them automatically, staring down at them for far too long. 

It was the same man who’d been kissing him. Or, should he say, the same _demon_. In picture after picture, the two of them were standing or sitting together or, in one photograph, locked in an embrace just outside the doors of the bookshop. The bookshop they had never been able to destroy. They’d tried. Of course they’d tried, especially after Aziraphale’s very next life had given him the dreadful place. Like he was tied to it. At least now they knew why.

“So it’s worse than we thought. He’s being corrupted by a demon. How has he not Fallen, Michael?”

They arched a brow, and it was answer enough. “Would you have any objection to me following this up using... back channels?”

Michael was such a useful angel to have around. Truly, they were. “There are no back channels, Michael.”

With a smile, they turned away and Gabriel picked up one of the photographs. The two of them seated on a park bench, hands linked and Aziraphale tossing a scattering of seeds out to the ducks. How? What sort of game was the demon playing? And how was the Almighty just allowing it to happen?

\----

There were always back channels. There had been since the first moment Hell had formed. Angels had lost partners and, for some, those links were too hard to break. It wasn’t something Gabriel needed to know. He’d lost his link and hadn’t gone looking for them, so certain in his own views of Right and Wrong that he failed to realize just how blurred the lines had become since that split.

Perhaps they had always been blurred.

But it didn’t matter. This war was going to settle things, once and for all. Heaven was going to triumph over Hell and the surviving links would be restored, the world born anew. Their playground, not humanity’s. And no wayward angel or stupid demon were going to affect that.

They entered an empty stairwell, going down half a level to see anyone coming or going, and lifted their Heavenly mobile to their ear. “It’s me,” they said when it was answered. “It’s our man Aziraphale.”

On the other end, the gruff being grunted. “What, the one who don’t know he’s an angel?”

“Yes, the amnesiac. Is there any possibility he’s working for you? Fallen when we weren’t looking, perhaps?”

“Tch. We haven’t had anybody new in millennia.”

“No?” They blew out a sharp breath. “Well, then, you might want to investigate the activities of the demon Crowley. Might be playing his _own game_ , word to the wise.”

“What kinda game? Like Hangman?”

“No, I’m...” Oh, demons could be so stupid. “I’m telling you, you can’t trust him.” Whilst he grunted and muttered on the other end, they tipped the mobile away from their ear with a smile for the fellow angel making his way down the stairs. How far he was going was no concern of theirs just so long as he didn’t realize just who they were talking to. No need to advertise that even Archangels had their, ah, lower contacts.

“What about you?” he finally grunted.

“Of course you can trust me. I’m an _angel_.”

“Hm.”

Satisfied they’d made their point, they tipped the phone away from their ear and blew out the screen’s light.

\----

**_Hell_ **

There weren’t mobiles in Hell or, if there were, they were gifts of older Heavenly models. Ligur didn’t have one of them, and he didn’t want one. He hung up his desk phone, the chameleon on his head and, therefore, his eyes a burnt red hue. Suspicion and irritation bubbled under his skin, the idea that Crowley might me mucking about on the last day of the world a bothersome one.

He didn’t trust him, and he never had. Even less so than he trusted any other demon, which was saying quite a bit seeing as how he didn't even particularly trust Lord Beelzebub.

He clasped his hands together beneath his chin. “Crowley, Crowley, Crowley... What have you been playin’ at?”

\----

 **_No. 473, London  
_ ** **_9:00am_ **

_“...at Turning Point Nuclear Power Station be terrorist activity?”  
_ _“Could be! All we need to do is find some terrorists capable of removing an entire nuclear reactor while it's still running without anyone noticing.”_

Damian smiled at the heavy sarcasm, listening to Madame Tracy's radio. His breakfast was leftovers from the Pizza Bella across the street, something papa would likely sigh over, and he was watching for someone specific. 

_“W- How can it still be producing electricity if it hasn't got any reactors?”  
_ _“We don't know that. We were hoping you clever buggers at the BBC would have an idea.”_

The radio switched off as Damian laughed. Oh, yeah, dad would've _loved_ that. 

“Damian, dear, what are you doing in the doorway?” 

“Newt's s'pose to come back today,” he replied honestly. “And I wanted to see him.”

Ms. Potts shook her head, and he grinned down the stairs at her. He was lucky his parents had agreed to let him stay the night. Ms. Potts let him get away with a lot, including sitting in the doorway, watching for anyone who wandered their way. 

He felt a little bad that he was going to sneak away, but it was the sort of thing his dad would approve of for the sneakiness and his papa would approve of for the reasons. It was for the best, right? His parents were interested in the Tadfield place and Newt had noticed weird things about it, so it only made sense that the source of the war was there. 

His parents, he reasoned, couldn't _really_ be cross with him. They'd expected him to be part of the whole war thing his whole life, hadn't they? So now he would be. 

“Bye, Ms. Potts! He's here!” 

“Be careful, luv, and be back by lunch.”

He'd be in Tadfield by then, so only waved and shoved the last bite of pizza into his mouth to keep from telling the truth by accident. And then he was out the door. 

“Oh! Um. Hello, Damian.”

“Hey, Newt!” he greeted, then sprinted right down the stairs. He'd watched Newt get in his car the night before, a blue three-wheeled contraption with a dodgy backseat and a weird bumper sticker that said Dick Turpin. 

It was, luckily enough for an eleven year old with no carjacking skills, unlocked on the passenger side.[181] He climbed into the car and wiggled his way into a backseat of crisp wrappers and a bottle of something that had a sun-bleached white wrapper and an expiration date three years back. Damian rolled it under the seat and tucked himself behind the driver's side on the floor, stretching his legs out and ready to cover himself in the blanket. 

Until then, he opened his phone and wondered what playlist one should listen to when on their way to a war aversion. He also pulled a big, white feather out of his breast pocket. He twirled it, watching it shimmer beautifully in the morning light. It was pristine, even after being in his pocket, after being in his dad’s pocket. He’d handed it to him the morning before when they’d been sitting in the Bentley right outside Ms. Pott’s and Sergeant Shadwell’s building. It was something very, _very_ special. He’d known that even before he’d gotten the soft tingling thing in his hands, just the way dad looked at it had spoken volumes. 

_“Listen to me. I need you to hold onto this. No matter what happens, you need to keep this close to you.”  
_ _“How come? It’s just a feather.”  
_ _“It’s from your papa.”  
_ _“What d’you mean?”  
_ _“Sometimes... sometimes he remembers he’s got magic, kid. I don’t know how it works, but I know... I know it’s going to help keep you safe somehow. Your papa’s magic works in weird ways.”  
_ _“Isn’t it supposed to be mysterious ways?”  
_ _“Damian, just take the bloody feather before I change my mind. It’s important to me.”_

So of course he’d taken it, and it had tingled against his fingers and had made him feel... lighter somehow. Buoyed up, brave, lucky.[182] Like his papa was there somehow, and would keep him safe no matter what.

Damian put in an ear bud as Newt came out, hands filled with junk and wearing a coat he hadn't been before. Damian threw the blanket over himself and shuffled down a bit further. The junk ended up on the passenger seat, from the sounds of it, and the driver's side smelled faintly of mildew and cigarettes. Much like Shadwell's flat. 

He swallowed as the car started, the news station he'd been listening to now talking about the lost civilisation of Atlantis. The feather seemed to tremble in his grip, so he put it back in his pocket. 

\----

**_Mayfair, London_ **

Crowley had left Aziraphale at the bookshop. He’d had to. There hadn’t been another choice. His eyes - the pupils had dilated so much and he hadn’t been able to stop shaking. Crowley had wanted nothing more than to stay, haul him close and cling. He couldn’t go now. He couldn’t get discorporated _now_. It was the last day, and Crowley was more sure of that now than he’d ever been. How could it not be?

He’d picked up the wrong boy, and he was going to lose everything because of it.

With a snarl, eyes golden from corner to corner in a way they rarely could be, he yanked a globe off one of the bookshelves in the lounge and yanked it from its base. It floated, twirling idly, and a fingersnap brought up the world news on the telly.

There was... a lot of news. Too much to focus on, but he let it run while he ranted. He’d rather think of it that way than as prayers.

“What’s the point,” he demanded, “of any of this? Hm? You didn’t make him Fall, so is this the punishment instead? Losing everything? Well, I’m not letting it happen.”

Even if he’d had to leave him. Even if he’d been _told_ to leave him, so he could get himself under control. Where should they go? He watched the globe circle in the air. England was out. America was out. Atlantis hadn’t existed the day before but was still out. 

Crowley let the globe spin and went into Damian’s room to grab _The Extremely Big Book of Astronomy_. The bindings ended up on the coffee table, the pages scattering through the air. 

Earth may have been out, but there were lots and lots of other options. He’d helped put some of them in place, after all, though the memories were vague. Distant things, feelings and sensations the easiest memories to conjure. And recognition when he saw projects he’d had a hand in. “Alpha Centauri,” he hummed, studying the photograph of the stunning star system. “That’s always beautiful this time of year.” It was just over four light-years away from the sun, so that could be far enough away. He tossed the paper aside, plucking up one of a beautiful nebula. Recognition pickled, and he hummed. There were plenty of viable options, plenty of places to go. 

He'd have to alter a whole hell of a lot to make it a place that wouldn't discorporate Aziraphale immediately or something that wouldn't kill Damian. 

Was it fair to take him? Was it selfish? The whole world was about to end, so that didn't seem _entirely_ selfish. But forcing him to be the last human... Maybe he could elongate Damian's life, even? Keep Aziraphale from realizing he should be aging. Keep them both as long as possible. 

It was selfish. It was incredibly, incredibly-

“I only ever asked questions,” he said skyward. And he'd tempted a few others into asking those same ones. But times had been innocent Before. The questions hadn't seemed dangerous. 

To Eve, the apple hadn't seemed dangerous.

“That's all it took to be a demon in the old days.” But it wasn't the old days. What happened to the whole rainbow promise not to kill everyone again? Why hadn't Aziraphale, for all the things he'd done, for loving a demon, Fallen? What was the criteria nowadays? None of it made _sense_. “Great plan?” he demanded weakly. “God, you listening?” To anyone? Anyone at all? “Show me a Great Plan!” Because this one was bollocks. 

This one was killing everyone. 

This one seemed like such a _waste_. 

“Okay,” he gave in, “I know you're testing them. You- you said you were going to be testing them. You shouldn't test them to destruction. Not to the end of the world,” he growled, smacking the globe off to the side. It only came back, and Crowley dropped onto the couch and scrubbed his hands over his face. 

They couldn't find the Antichrist. They couldn't run away. He couldn't even _talk_ to his husband. 

Crowley was good at ideas. Maybe a detail or two slipped away from him on occasion, but he was still good at coming up with plans. He wasn't good at giving up. 

But what was he going to do? 

\----

 **_Near Oxfordshire  
_ ** **_Driving_ **

Something was flying. It sounded a little like black and white UFO movies that were on way past Damian's bedtime or like the American cartoons he and his dad liked. His dad would always smirk at the ones with Marvin, tickled by the things people came up with. Not because of the belief in aliens, exactly, but the limited scope with which they were viewed. And just the word itself. 

Papa thought it was all just rubbish, which tickled dad even more. 

And as the car sputtered to a stop, Damian risked taking the blanket off and getting onto his knees to see out the window. It was _definitely_ the kind of UFO in the old movies, and Damian really hoped Newt wasn't going to get them laser-blasted or anything. 

In an enormous spacesuit, their face unable to be seen through the silver orb of their helmet, a female-sounding voice said, “Morning, sir, madam, or neuter. This your planet, is it?” 

Newt stared at the alien, but, “Yes, I suppose so.”

“Had it long, have we?” she asked, and Damian pulled out his phone to begin filming. She sounded pretty reasonable for something that could laser-blast them. Not like Marvin at all. Or like most of the things from _Doctor Who_. 

“Not personally,” Newt replied. “As a species, about half a million years, I think.” Damian rolled his eyes. That, both parents agreed, was rubbish. 

“Hm. Been letting the old acid rain build up, haven't we, sir?” she asked, a companion stepping down the ramp with a blinking red light in hand. Scanning, Damian imagined. “Been letting ourselves go with the old hydrocarbons, perhaps?” 

“Sorry?” 

“Well, I'm sorry to have to tell you, sir, but your polar ice caps are significantly below regulation size for a planet of this category, sir. We'll overlook it on this occasion.” Her helmet melted away, revealing a green face that reminded Damian of a fish. She kept looking around as if she wasn't quite sure why she was there at all. “The fact is, sir, we've been asked to bring you a message.” 

“Oh? Me?” Damian rolled his eyes hard.

“Message runs, ‘We bring you a message of universal peace, cosmic harmony, and suchlike.’ Message ends.” 

“Oh. That's very kind,” he replied, sounding very oddly calm for someone talking to aliens. Maybe Newt was cooler than Damian had given him credit for. Definitely stronger than Sergeant Shadwell seemed to think, anyway.

“Have you any idea _why_ we've been asked to bring you this message, sir?” 

“I s-suppose with man's h-harnessing of the atom, and, er-” 

“Neither have we, sir. Neither have we.” She caught sight of the backseat in all her looking about. “Is it his planet, too?” 

“Whose-? Damian!”

Uh-oh. He switched off the recording, more wary of Newt than he was of getting laser-blasted by some alien. She seemed pretty relaxed and cool, actually. For an alien. He'd have to tell dad. Assuming his dad didn't strangle him for this, anyway. All the running away was, uh, kind of gonna be a problem. Probably. “Uh. Hi, Newt.”

“Did you receive the message, young sir?” 

“Yeah,” he replied with a small smile. “There's about to be a war, so that might be why you were sent?” 

“A war? Hm. We'd best be off, then. Pass along our message, would you?” 

Newt strained to see both Damian and the aliens, head swiveling back and forth nervously, so Damian answered again. “Okay. I recorded it.”

“Ah. Wise move. Farewell.”

“Fare... Farewell,” Newt squeaked. 

“Bye!” 

They watched the aliens make their way back to their spaceship, the ramp drawing up and closing, and they lifted right off the ground to soar into the sky. Damian snapped a picture. 

“ _What_ are you doing here?” 

“Uh. I snuck in.”

“I _see_ that. Your parents are going to kill me.”

“Dad might,” Damian allowed. Newt squeaked again. “Maybe they won't be so mad if I'm in the front seat? With a seat belt?” 

“Right. Yeah. Come on up,” he agreed, gathering the junk off his seat so Damian could squeeze his way up. 

“What's all that?” 

“Witchfinding equipment,” he explained, pushing everything into the small glove box. “Um. A Pendulum of Discovery, thumbscrews, firelighters, a bell, book, candle, and pin. Not that I'm prepared to burn anyone or poke anyone with pins or-”

“Oh. What are _thumbscrews_?” 

“Uh. Does Madame Tracy know you're here?”[183]

Damian looked down at his phone. “Well... I said I was hanging out with you. I just, y'know, didn't say we were driving away.”

“Gosh.”

“Are you mad?” 

“I need to call Sergeant Shadwell, I think.”

“About me?” 

“And the... The aliens.”

That made sense. Newt spilled out of the car, and Damian tapped his phone screen for a few seconds before he lifted the device to his ear. He wanted a chance to explain before Madame Tracy told his parents instead. 

On the radio, just before he turned the volume down, the broadcaster said something about the Kraken. 

\----

**_Hell_ **

“I've been thinking,” Ligur began, ignoring the rest of the demons and focusing solely on Hastur. He didn't trust demons. He didn't trust Hastur. 

He didn't. 

“About Crowley. Something's not right.”

“Oh, look at this.” Hastur slammed a bucket onto his desk, the metallic clang drawing Ligur's eye. “I'm meant to be getting ready to go to Megiddo to meet the boy. I should be leaving _now_.”

Ligur sighed heavily, watching putrid fluid drip from a leaking pipe and into the bucket. He didn't trust Hastur, and he didn't like him. 

“Instead, I'm standing here with a bucket waiting for _maintenance_ to come fix another bloody pipe.” Maintenance could take hours or days to arrive, two things they were in very short supply of. Ligur shifted on his feet, ready to snap or something, but Hastur’s tone changed from dramatic to menacing. 

“So. Crowley. What's Mr. Slick done now?” 

He didn't like Hastur, but they mutually disliked Crowley. “I'm not sure,” he admitted. He only had that ruddy angel's word for it. “But I know it's nothing good.”

“Oh. Well, that's alright, then. He's not meant to do good.”

Right. None of them were. “Figure of speech. Nothing bad, then.”

“Nothing bad? So... he's not in trouble?” 

“He's definitely in trouble. Or he will be.”

Hastur gave his best approximation of a smile. Ligur didn't like it. “We going in?” 

“Not yet. We need _proof_!” Ligur lamented. “But once we've got it, he's toast.”

Hastur nodded his understanding, delight living in black eyes. “And that's gonna hurt.”

“What, being toasted?” It surprised a wheeze of a laugh out of Ligur. He didn't like it. “Oh, yeah.”

“Right. Toast,” Hastur joked. The fucking pillock. He held up his slimy bucket like a mug of ale. “Back to Armageddon then.” Fresh liquid dribbled onto his desk, nowhere near the bucket. “Look at that!” 

\----

 **_Tadfield  
_ ** **_Driving  
_ ** **_11:58 am_ **

Neither parent had answered. He'd called the bookshop, the flat, and each mobile. No one had answered. Four telephone numbers and not a one had picked up. 

Damian fiddled with his phone, debating whether he should call again, and Newt drove. The only sound between them was the radio. The Kraken and more alien sightings and Atlantis and more nuclear things - the whole world was going mad. Had the war already started? 

Had they been too late? 

It didn't surprise him that it wasn't turning out to be a normal war of guns and tanks. He'd been imagining something more like _Lord of the Rings_ anyway. It was too bad there wasn't a ring to take to a volcano. Just some kid his age with a dog. 

Hearing one such animal bark, he looked over to see four kids around his age on the side of the road. “Hey-” 

Damian gasped, grabbing his seat belt as Newt suddenly jerked the wheel hard to one side, only just seeing people in the road before the world upended. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and prayed.

* * *

* * *

### Footnotes

180. He thought it was a shite idea. It could be their last night on Earth as they knew it, and it wasn’t bloody right to not spend it together.↩

181. The lock was actually thoroughly broken. As Newt wasn't particularly used to having passengers, he was unaware of this flaw.↩

182. Had he the right words, he would’ve said _blessed_.↩

183. Honestly, Newt wasn’t _entirely_ sure what thumbscrews were for. But the name sounded nasty and the little wooden box looked a little... off putting.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our ineffables are really struggling, huh?  
> They're not the only ones
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [SylWritesStuff](https://sylwritesstuff.tumblr.com/) and my lovely beta at [skimmingmilk](https://skimmingmilk.tumblr.com/).


	25. Just One Yesterday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh... _fuck_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thank you, as usual, to [SkimmingTheSurface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skimmingthesurface/pseuds/skimmingthesurface) for her beta work. 
> 
> [Our chapter song](https://open.spotify.com/track/0l2p5mDOP3czJ2FpD6zWie?si=-SGlA0cFQWGRR5Ey9241bg) is probably one of my favorite songs just ever, so I've had it in mind for this chapter since I first started writing the fic :D If you listen to none of the rest, please do this weeks!
> 
> And thank all of you for your patience. I didn't update last week because, well, I'm an American and let's just say I Was Stressed. Also, for those of you who still might be, this chapter is rather heavy. If you would rather wait for next week and read them together, I totally understand  
> For the rest of you... it's go time

_I was not born for death and yet I have died a thousand times, he thought.  
_ _And now I am born again for these hard times._

― Kathryn Lasky

* * *

**_Saturday  
_ ** **_Five Hours and Forty-eight Minutes Until the End of the World  
_ ** **_Mayfair, London_ **

Crowley vaulted off the couch with a frustrated growl. He'd ignored Damian's calls earlier. He hadn't left messages either time, so it couldn't really be _that_ important, and with him calling both numbers, he'd been sure the boy would call Aziraphale instead. He'd _hoped_ their son's voice would be enough to steady the angel, but if he hadn't answered either... 

Or if this was him calling now? 

Crowley plucked up the phone. “Anthony.”

“ _Dad_!”

Crowley pinched between his brows. “Damian, listen to me-” 

“I'm in Tadfield.”

The receiver clattered to the table, Crowley’s heart freezing in his chest. What the _fuck_ was he doing in _Tadfield_? He snatched the phone back up. “What do you think you're doing?!” 

“Don't be mad,” he replied as if Crowley was cross at him for taking a walk without asking or some such thing. “I just wanted to help.”

“You're _eleven years old_ ,” Crowley hissed.

“Yeah, well, so's Adam.”

That brought Crowley up short. “What are you-?” 

“And he found a dog in the woods on Wednesday.” Damian paused and Crowley didn’t interrupt this time, trying to remember to keep his breaths even and deep lest his corporation hyperventilate. “Um. That was his birthday. Like mine.”

His son was with the Antichrist. His _son_ was with the Antichrist. “Damian, I need you to tell me _exactly_ where you are.”

“I, um, I don't _really_ know. I know it's called Jasmine Cottage, and the lady inside is... Well, she knew we were coming.”

“Who is _we_?” 

“Um. Adam, his friends, me, and... Newt.”

“ _Shadwell's_ Newt?!” He was going to go right up to that so-called witchfinder and-

“Yeah. See, papa called Sergeant Shadwell yesterday, and I think he told him to come to Tadfield. Because when Newt figured it out, Shadwell said the same place. And then-” 

He listened to Damian explain his plan to go with Newt to see if he could help, but he was staring at the ceiling. Why had Aziraphale called Shadwell? What had he _said_ to him? 

“Hang on, you tried calling him and he didn't pick up?” 

“Not at the bookshop or his mobile. Are you guys not together?” Damian took a shivering breath. “Dad, is something wrong?” 

Everything. Everything was wrong. Crowley had to go see him _right now_. “Listen, Damian, I need you to stay right where you are. Don't go anywhere with this kid. Ssstay there. Do you hear me?” 

“Yeah. I’ll stay here,” he agreed easily, too telling for comfort. “Are you and papa coming?”

“As fast as we can,” Crowley promised, reaching for his sunglasses and pushing them on. “It'll be alright. We'll... We'll figure this out.” Somehow.

“Okay. He just seems kind of normal so far. And his dog doesn't look like a weapon, but...”

It didn't need to. Not for another few hours. Still. “But?”

“The feather you gave me keeps, uh, beating. And it started as soon as the car crashed.”

“ _What car crashed?!_ ”

“Newt’s. But he- I don’t know what happened. I didn’t see anything, but he swerved outta nowhere. I’m okay, though. I was wearing my seatbelt and the Them - those are Adam and his friends. They helped me out of the car, so- so I’m okay, dad. The feather’s just been beating. Like, uh, like a heart? Pulsing,” he remembered, and Crowley felt the strangest surge of affection amidst all of his utter terror. His smart kid.

The feather made him worry, though. Crowley had learned a long time ago that it only came to life - in a way - when in danger. He didn’t know why he’d handed the token to Damian when he’d dropped him off the morning before, but he’d just felt the need to do _something_. The thing had brought him comfort since the 1940s, so why not? “Alright. You hold onto it, then, and don’t say a word about it to anyone. I still don't want you going anywhere. Tell them you're grounded because, believe me, once all this is sorted, you _are_. So you just-” 

His television fizzled, the news anchor leaning forward on his elbows. A frog appeared on his head, skin rippling and shifting until Hastur was glaring at him across the desk. “What the _Heaven's_ going on, Crowley? What have you done?” 

“Stay safe,” he mumbled into the phone and hung up. “Hastur, hey, not following you. How do you mean?” 

“The _boy_. The boy called Warlock. We took him to the fields of Megiddo.” Hastur reached out to grab the camera and drag it closer. “The dog is not with him, the child knows nothing of the Great War, he is not our master's son, he said that I...” Hastur grimaced. “That I smelt of poo.”

Crowley tipped his head. The greasy little bastard wasn't _wrong_. “You can see his point.”

“Dead meat, Crowley.” Furious, Hastur ripped the throat out of his confused co-anchor. “You're bloody history! You stay where you are!” He pointed a bloody finger in Crowley’s direction. “We're coming to collect you!” he growled, running off screen. His co-anchor was left sprawling across the desk, blood pooling. 

Crowley turned off the television. He didn't have much time, then. He slanted a look towards the Mona Lisa sketch on the wall, took a deep breath. Good thing he had insurance. Too bad he didn’t have Aziraphale there to open the thermos for him.

\----

**_Tadfield, Oxfordshire_ **

“Stay safe,” dad urged quietly, and hung up the phone.

Damian sighed, staring at the cracked screen until it went dark. At least he'd gotten someone to answer, finally, though it wasn't exactly reassuring. He didn't like that they weren't together. Was _papa_ staying safe? Was _dad_? He'd heard someone else's voice, someone who'd sounded angry. He hoped they were okay. He hoped the pulsing feather was wrong. Because the feather wasn't _only_ pulsing. It was trying to get away. 

It had sprung off once, but when Damian hadn't chased after it, instead following the Them as they'd helped stumbling Newt up to the cottage door, it had come back to his hand and he'd returned it to his pocket. No one had noticed, thankfully, caught up in the bustle of getting Newt upstairs and listening to Anathema say she'd known they were coming, but hoped they weren't. 

She'd had first aid ready for Newt, and a lemonade and biscuit ready for Damian. Sighing, he pocketed his phone and stepped back inside. Adam's friends were getting ready to leave and Adam was staring intently at Anathema’s art on the walls, so Damian went to the table. 

He'd stay, he promised himself, just as his dad had asked. They'd come soon and everything would be okay again.

“You coming, Adam?” one of his friends asked.

“I didn’t say you could go,” Adam snapped, clearly surprising the three of them. Damian took a careful sip of his weird lemonade - papa would probably like it, honestly - and wondered just what about that weird picture on the wall had upset him. There was a crackle of something in the air, something that felt similar to dad but so very, _very_ different. It faded as quickly as it had come, though, Adam adding a hesitant, “See you after lunch.”

They filed out and Anathema let him and Adam know they could stay, smile distracted as she carried her first aid supplies towards the bedroom. Adam rubbed a hand over his brow, so Damian took a silent deep breath and squared his shoulders the way papa did right before he told dad off about something or other. Instead, he was going to talk to the _right kid_. Dad's reaction hadn't exactly gone over his head. “Does the demon stuff bother you?”

“Demon stuff?”

“On the wall.”

He watched Adam very deliberately avoid looking at the pictures again. “No. Anathema’s cool. She gave me a bunch of magazines that showed me how the world really is.” Damian decided not to ask how the world really was, not quite liking the odd look in Adam’s eyes. He nodded his head towards him, though, curls bouncing. “How do you know it’s demon stuff?”

“My dad likes to make fun of... well, anything having to do with demons and all. Says most of it’s rubbish, and people don’t know everything they think they do.”

“Why?”

“Dunno, but it’s just fun. We never talk about that sort of stuff around papa, but...” He trailed off and took another drink, but Adam’s curiosity seemed to be piqued and that peculiar look hadn’t yet left his eyes. Damian wanted to reach for his phone again, but was pretty sure any additional calls to his dad wouldn’t go through. There was a thick scent of ozone in the air, prickling the hair along his arms and the back of his neck. Like when papa had been pacing around on his birthday, but something much, much worse.

Was it really Adam's dog who was the problem, he wondered, or was it Adam? 

“Does he make fun of witches and stuff too? Or of occultists like Anathema?”

There wasn’t much his dad didn’t have a teasing quip on hand for, so Damian passed his glass from hand to hand. “Yeah, sometimes. But my parents are magic, so it’s not that big a deal.”

Adam’s nose wrinkled again, Damian sucking in a sharp breath at the way his gaze narrowed and focused on him. He didn’t like it and, for some reason, he couldn’t get out of his chair. Was it Adam or Adam’s dog who were the real dangers here? “Your parents aren’t magic.”

His chin lifted, and he resisted the urge to take his feather out as proof. “Yes. They are. Just papa doesn’t know he is.”

Adam looked at his chest, frowning as if he could _see_ the feather in his pocket. “Those aren’t your parents.”

He sounded so certain, but Damian glared at him and said, with all the haughtiness one could possibly pick up from watching his papa deal with customers, “I might be adopted, but they’re still my parents.”

Adam studied him for a few seconds before nodding. “You should come to the woods.”

He should absolutely not go into the woods. “No, I should-”

“You’re _coming_ to the woods. You'll like it. It's loads better than the Johnson treehouse.”

Damian stood. Oh. Yikes.

\----

**_Soho, London_ **

The pastries hadn't helped, nor had the tea prepared by someone else's hand. He'd been too worried, wondering if the lovely human behind the counter would have a tomorrow. He'd blessed the young man, had accidentally blessed the entire café. 

It hadn't helped his mental state, so he'd rushed out and given the last of his pastries to a passing mother. A warm smile, another blessing, a headache growing. He didn't _get_ headaches, but this seemed to be splitting his skull in twain. It was insufferable and the usual abilities he had at his fingertips didn't seem to be working on himself.

He wondered, and it did not help his aching head, if Crowley had similar abilities. Something whispered a _yes_ over his skin, bringing gooseflesh to the surface and throbbing somewhere in the base of his skull. He was entirely too close to something, wasn't he? He _knew_ he was. He just _knew_ it, so a sense of despair was trickling in. He should've told Crowley about the book immediately and let him go do his reckless thing alone. 

No. No, he should've gone _with_ him. Maybe things would already be fixed. 

Maybe he wouldn't have this terrifying sense that Damian was in danger. It had come on so suddenly, but he'd left his brick of a mobile telephone at the bookshop when he'd gone off on his walk and his head ached so badly, he really had no idea how long he'd been gone. 

Wringing his hands together, quickly making his way back to the bookshop to call both Tracy to check on his son and Crowley to tell him the truth, he almost missed the three approaching strangers. 

They surrounded him, backed him against a wall because he was too startled by their very presence to stop them. He couldn't, for whatever reason, properly think of them as a man and two women. They were just shaped that way. One of them used they/them pronouns, but how did he know that when he didn't even know their name was Michael? 

Aziraphale’s breath caught and the trio gazed at him dispassionately. The man-shaped being gestured at his hands. “Look,” he sneered, “he's even got a ring.”

Aziraphale felt the most bizarre set of desires. Hide his ring, hide the relationship, hide the connection entirely so Crowley would stay safe. _Keep Crowley safe_. 

But he also wanted to snip at them, a roiling rage buried deep because all of this confusion in him was _their fault_. “That is traditional when one gets married,” he snipped, straightening his shoulders. 

A sneer, a scowl, a dangerously neutral expression - they all looked at him as if he'd done something terrible. “Funny,” Michael hummed. “We’ve just been learning some rather disturbing things about you. You’ve been a bit of a Fallen Angel, haven’t you? _Marrying_ the enemy?”

Aziraphale’s chest tightened and he shook his head. No. No, he wasn’t- “I-I- Terribly sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t think your husband in the dark glasses will get you special treatment in Hell,” the middle one said. _Uriel_. Oh, no. “He’s in trouble too.”

Crowley. Crowley was in trouble. Did they know? Did Bee’s people know he’d messed up his job?

“Aziraphale...” Michael sighed. “It doesn’t really matter, though, does it? You’ll be back in Heaven in no time at all, won’t you?”

 _Back_ in Heaven? He stared at them, all of them, bewildered and too frightened to stand it. He wanted to push them all out of the way and rush to the bookshop. He needed to call his husband. Crowley knew how to distract him. He’d gotten in so much practice. First on the way to Edinburgh back in... back...

He leaned against the wall of the café, staring at them one after the other. They were dangerous. They were _all_ dangerous. “I don’t understand.”

“You will,” Uriel spat. “You’ll have to watch your precious Earth crumble. And then what will you do?”

“I can still _save_ it,” he snapped, startled more than hurt when the man-shaped being grabbed his shoulder and punched him in the gut. Swift and shocking. How like Sandalphon, the utter monster. Then Uriel grabbed his lapels and pushed him back, Aziraphale staring at her with wide, terrified eyes. “Y-you can’t do this. You mustn’t.”

“You really think you can stop an entire war? You don’t even know who you are. You’re _ridiculous_.”

Aziraphale swallowed. Crowley called him ridiculous all the time. All the bloody time, in his fond way. So soft and secretly adoring. Crowley loved him. Crowley loved him. He couldn’t let him down. They were mad, he told himself, struggling to believe it.

Horns sounded, triumphant. A call to arms, Aziraphale thought, Uriel releasing him and stepping back. “Oh! This is great. It’s starting.”

And then they leapt upwards, disappearing in beams of light, and Aziraphale slumped back against the wall. Maybe... Maybe he was the mad one?

\----

**_Mayfair, London_ **

Crowley swung the portrait off the wall to reveal a safe with a single dial. He twisted it quickly - _4, 0, 0, 4_ \- and opened it to reveal a single tartan-patterned thermos. He hadn’t laid eyes on since 1967, hadn’t needed to.

He needed it now.

A miracle covered his shirt with a thick apron, long gloves going on past his elbow. They were black, of course, for aesthetic purposes, but they’d hopefully provide enough protection if a drop came splashing his way. A bucket and metalwork tongs appeared on the coffee table and he carried the thermos across the room, held as far away from himself as possible. He carefully, carefully, _carefully_ unscrewed the cap and he could _feel_ it. The zing of holiness in the air, a touch of angelic Grace he hadn’t felt since the night he’d gotten an angel’s feather, since he’d made him a promise.

He’d wanted love. No, he’d always had love and he’d _known_ it. But he hadn’t wanted to be alone. Crowley held the tongs out and gripped the sides of the thermos, gingerly lifting it and tipping it into the bucket. He didn’t have to be alone. They’d go get Damian, and they’d leave. If everything didn’t go to pot, they’d come back. Simple.

He poured every last drop of holy water into the red mop bucket. Simple.

And then the buzzer went off, Hastur shouting his name. Cursing under his breath, Crowley picked up the bucket and looked at the doorway to the lounge room. It worked in cartoons, didn’t it?

“Crowley!” Ligur bellowed and Crowley hoped to Someone that it was just the two of them. “We only want a little word wif you!” he lied. Crowley focused on getting the bucket atop the cracked doorway, balancing it against the wall, and backed away quickly. He watched it as if the holy water might leap out and attack him and headed into his plant room.

“We know you’re in there!” Hastur bellowed, sounding like a cartoon villain.

“Crowley!” Ligur called, elongating the vowels in his name and also managing to sound like a cartoon villain.

Crowley carefully set his plant mister on the coffee table and dropped onto the couch, gloves and apron quickly stripped off and tossed aside. He eyed the crack in the door warily, the hands he had casually laid on his knees tightening into fists when he saw how red Ligur’s chameleon and eyes were. Hastur was right behind him, his frog’s beady eyes peering out from that ridiculous white-blond wig. “In here, people,” he finally replied, voice even, fingers uncurling. He was doing this for his angel and his son.

His wedding band glinted on his finger, budged up against his engagement ring. He’d never been foolish enough to wear either in Hell or in front of other demons, but... Fuck ‘em.

Ligur shoved open the door without a thought, and Crowley couldn’t help the wince as he watched the chameleon and attached demon beginning to melt under the waterfall of holy water pouring onto him. Ligur started to scream, the sound barely muffled by the bucket landing on his head. His hands shot up, trying in vain to rip the red plastic from himself, but it fused to his face a split second before melting away and there was no longer a head. He was a plume of glowing smoke, his demonic essence boiling away under the purity in the water. Ligur collapsed to his knees and didn’t have them anymore. He didn’t have anything. He _wasn’t_ anything. Not anymore.

Well. Aziraphale hadn’t let him down. “Hi,” he greeted calmly.

Hastur shrieked in short bursts, hopping over the pile of wet smoking clothes, and staring at Crowley like he was... something really good, but bad in Hellish terms. “That’s- That’s- That’s holy water!” he shouted, pointed dramatically at what was once Ligur. “I can’t believe even a demon would- would- would- _Holy water_! That’s- That’s-”

Crowley regarded him cooly, mind skipping ahead already whilst Hastur panicked. It was a bit dramatic, even for him, but he supposed it _had_ been holy water. No demon had ever done that before, but how many demons married angels?

“But he hadn’t done nothing to you!” Hastur wailed.

“ _Yet_.” Crowley held up his hand, plant mister in his grasp, and finger on the trigger.

Hastur started to shake his head, taking half a step back, but his tone changed. Shrieks were traded for calm fury. “You... You don’t frighten me.”

“Do you know what this is?” Crowley asked, slowly rising. If he could just get out the door, he could get away from Hastur. The Bentley was already running. “This is a plant mister, cheapest and most efficient on the market today. It can squirt a fine spray of water into the air.” Crowley kept it aimed at him, bringing his other hand up to keep his arm steady and because he’d seen it in basically every action movie ever. Plant mister was as good as a gun, in his opinion. “It’s filled with holy water. It can turn you,” he nodded towards Ligur, “into that.”

Hastur looked over to the steaming pile of former demon, then back at Crowley. “You’re _bluffing_.”

“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not.” He had to get out and get to Aziraphale. He had to save Damian. He didn’t have _time_ for this. He grasped at movie quotes, something cooler than Hastur could ever hope to be. “Ask yourself: do you feel lucky?”

Hastur and his stupid frog stared at him, wobbling in place, and Crowley felt a drop fall onto his finger. _Shite_.

“Yes. Do you?” He lifted a hand, and the plastic bottle burst in Crowley’s hand.

“Ow!” he gasped, waving his hand.

“Time to go, Crowley!”

His phone rang. For Someone’s sake, who was it _now_? Hastur watched it with a furrowed, puzzled brow, especially when the ansaphone kicked on. _The ansaphone!_ “Hi, this is the Crowley-Fells. You know what to do - do it with style.”

“Don’t move!” Crowley shouted, leaning towards the side table the phone rested on. He groped for the receiver, pointing towards Hastur. “There’s something very important you need to know before you disgrace yourself.” 

He snagged the phone just as Aziraphale’s voice came over the machine. “Dearest, we need to talk. I _know_ where the boy-”

Crowley’s heart felt tight in his chest. Of course he’d know. Somehow. Of _course_ Aziraphale would know. “Yeah, s’not a good time. Got an old friend here.” He hung up and grinned at Hastur, ready to tempt. Aziraphale had better wait for him. “Well, you’ve definitely passed the test. You’re ready to start playing with the big boys.”

Hastur’s brow furrowed. “What? You’re mad.”

Confident, confident, confident. Upsell. _Give him what he wants._ Temptation was truly very easy, he reminded himself. “The Lords of Hell had to make sure you were trustworthy before we gave you command of the _legions of the damned_ in the war ahead. And, Hastur.” He jumped onto the couch, bringing up a flash of lightning. _Sell it, you so-called original tempter_. “Duke of Hell, you’ve come through with flying colours.”

It worked, and Crowley knew it immediately. That suspicion warred with a surprised pleasure. “Me?”

 _Yes_. “Now, I-I wouldn’t expect you to believe me, Duke Hastur. _But_! Why don’t we talk to the Dark Council?” He pulled out his mobile, hoping Aziraphale wouldn’t try calling it. Not yet. He opened his contacts and pulled up the flat’s number. “Let’s see if they can convince you.”

“You- you’re calling the Dark Council?”

“ _Yes_. I am. And they say, ‘ssso long sssucker!’” he hissed, disappearing into his mobile just before the landline began to ring. Traveling between molecules wasn’t something he did on a regular basis. It took a Heaven of a lot of energy, for one. And, B, it was incredibly disorienting.

It was also a lot of fun. Crowley whooped and cackled, corporation flickering in and out as he moved through the telephone system. He’d beaten that dumb fucking toad, had killed a duke, and now he just had to stay that half-second ahead of him. 

“Crowley! You can’t escape me! Wherever you come out, I’ll come out too!”

That was exactly what Crowley was counting on. That and the impeccable timing of his ansaphone. Rather pleased with himself, Crowley even gave Hastur a heads-up. “Three, two, one!” And he spilled out of the tape deck, reforming into a proper human size whilst Hastur ranted on the machine. It clicked, and he was trapped. Just another left message. 

To ensure that, Crowley clicked off the machine and laughed, quickly grabbing his phone and sprinting out of the flat. He had to be careful not to step in Ligur, but that was fine. He’d get to his angel, their son, and...

Well, he had a few more minutes to plan the _and_ bit.

\----

_**Soho, London** _

He ran into the bookshop, skidded to a stumbling stop, and Aziraphale paused as well. Mid-pace. Crowley swallowed, unsure what to do with his hands except reach out. 

Aziraphale sighed quietly, but stepped closer and let himself be enveloped in Crowley's too-tight hold. “Oh, darling, I was hoping you'd be alright. When you said you had an old friend over, I...” 

“I know. I know, dove. I'm sorry.” Crowley pressed his face into soft, familiar curls. They were in disarray, likely from his fingers working through them again and again in stress. So much of this had gotten so completely mucked up. “I’m sorry, Aziraphale. Why were you calling? You know where the boy is?”

“I have his address, his telephone number. Everything but his shoe size, I think.”

Crowley huffed against his curls. “Shoe size?”

“It’s just a joke, my dear.”

“Got that, yeah. How’d you figure it out?”

“The book from the, ah, young lady with the bicycle. It’s complicated, and I don’t... I don’t believe it’s safe for me to think on it for too much longer, Crowley. I... We’re in danger.”

“The whole _world_ is in danger.” Crowley eased back, gently grasping Aziraphale’s forearms and carefully studying his eyes. They weren’t bright with knowledge, with his angeldom, but something in them still spiked Crowley with anxiety. There was knowledge _despite_ the lack of brightness. “Aziraphale-”

“Three beings came to me while I was taking a walk, Crowley, and they... They told me you were in trouble, and that I was behaving like a Fallen Angel and would be going _back_ to Heaven soon. And then they disappeared. They _jumped_ into beams of light and disappeared.”

Crowley’s throat went dry, and he started to shake his head. “Please don’t-”

“I knew their names, and they knew mine. It was just like the man, like Gabriel. We’re on opposite sides of this war, aren’t we? And your side- Uriel said you were in trouble. Is that what that was? Did they hurt you?”

“They tried. I hurt them.” Crowley gripped him tighter. “Listen- I- We- Damian’s in Tadfield.”

Aziraphale paled. “ _No_.”

“Yeah. So- So get in the car, and let’s go. We- I- We’ll leave. We’ll get him and then we’ll go off together, and nobody’ll even notice us.”

“Go off together?” Aziraphale made to step back, but Crowley held fast and even pulled him closer again. He bunched his fingers in the old waistcoat, face buried in Aziraphale's curls. They could do this. They could- Alpha Centauri, just as he'd thought before this most recent disaster. They could go up, and it could be a whole _Truman Show_ situation. But with Golems instead of actors. Crowley could do it. Few miracles, cover a part of one of the stars or a spare planet in a bubble that resembled Earth enough to be believable. Keep Aziraphale close. Keep him happy. Trick him, maybe, somehow, about the years passing by so he never aged himself to discorporation. Slow Damian’s molecules so his body would atrophy slower too.

They could be safe, happy. They _could_. “Just trust me.”

“ _No_.”

That wasn't the right answer. “Ngk.” When Aziraphale stepped away that time, Crowley let him. “Dove, please-”

“We can’t just _go_ , Crowley. The whole world is going to be destroyed just after teatime, and we need- I told you. I _told_ you, if the world was ending, I’d want to save it.”

“We can’t! We’re just-” One angel and one demon. Two beings handicapped so thoroughly by their respective Head Offices that one couldn’t find out what he was and the other... Well, Crowley was done for. Ties severed. He’d killed a fellow demon with holy water. It wasn’t enough to take down an Antichrist, but it could be enough to save one boy and themselves. “We can’t stop this anymore. I fucked up, and you have to let me fix it in the only way I can.”

“By being selfish and _leaving_? I know running is your forte, Crowley, but this is a bit over the top.”

“I don’t want to lose either of you. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing! But you can’t hold onto things the way they are forever. You were never going to be able to, and neither was I!” Aziraphale wrenched himself away entirely. “One life was never going to be enough!”

“This one doesn’t have to be _over_ ,” Crowley insisted, terrified by how close this conversation was to too much. “Please, Aziraphale, I’m begging you. Do you have any idea how demeaning that is? Don’t make me lose you again.”

Aziraphale paused.[184] Then he took a deep, steadying breath, and pushed his hands down as if pressing the very air would dismiss his exhaustion. “I'm not running away,” he replied with calm certainty.

Crowley did not have any calm or any certainty. He threw his hands up. “Yes, you _are_. I love you, you idiot. I'm not letting you... I can't-” 

“I love you too, but we _must_ stay.”

Crowley ripped off his glasses to scrub his hands over his face, exhausted and weary and too terrified for much more. “No. We can- We can keep together. Get Damian and bring him with us. There's still a way to- For me to-” 

“I am a _guardian_ , and I am not going anywhere,” Aziraphale snapped, losing patience. “The Almighty put me on the Eastern Gate of Eden with instructions to keep her Creation _safe_ , and I am not going to stop.”

“Aziraphale-” Crowley reached out, struggling to keep the gold of his eyes from spreading as panic rose. “You need to- That’s enough. You need to-”

“I know exactly what I need to do, you ridiculous demon. I am an angel, and we are going to fix this for our child and every other human on this planet.”

The sunglasses hit the floor just as the angel realized what he'd said. The blue light was instant. “Oh,” Aziraphale managed, “ _fuck_.” And he was gone. 

He was gone. 

The world was going to end in - Crowley checked his watch - roughly five hours, and his angel was gone. 

Good thing he knew where the alcohol was. He wasn't riding out Armageddon sober.

* * *

* * *

### Footnotes

184. He’d known that Crowley had memories of his past, but that again was really the first time he’d gotten concrete proof.↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr at [SylWritesStuff](https://sylwritesstuff.tumblr.com/) and my lovely beta at [skimmingmilk](https://skimmingmilk.tumblr.com/).

**Author's Note:**

> There's [a playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5etwKSeaOPKJaZlAOnkkyW?si=6-eapHPHTi6C6UFOPmKIDA) now :D A song will be added every week until the fic is over! But... what's that extra song? Could it be ~~our furry friend~~ a teaser for next week?


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